


Mischief Nights: A Romantic Comedy for Serial Killers

by shotgunsinlace



Series: The Almanac [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Dark Will Graham, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Fluff, Halloween, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Will, Pumpkin Spiced Everything, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Romcom Dynamics, Unresolved Sexual Tension, tummy love, which turns into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s supposed to be the lure, but somewhere down the line he lost complete control of the situation. It starts with a social worker inside a horse, followed by his psychiatrist driving an hour to the middle of nowhere to bring him homemade pumpkin spice coffee, and ends with an invitation to a dinner party on Halloween. The week can only get so much weirder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short and sweet but I'm not entirely sure what happened. Regardless, here's a Halloween fic set in an universe where there are other seasons besides winter in the Fuller!Verse.
> 
> Beta'd by the absolutely wonderful [weesprigofzest](http://weesprigofzest.tumblr.com/)!

Will has never given much thought to what his favorite season is. Since before he can remember, a year has been an uninterruptable flow that is only bookmarked by the type of clothes he’s required to wear, either to fend off the cold or ease the heat. 

Virginia tends to teeter over both extremes. Brutal winters keep Wolf Trap trapped within a snowglobe for months on end, with only three very brief months of summer before the respite of fall arrives at his doorstep. Just a couple of weeks to neither feel swamped by parkas nor overexposed in casual t-shirts and light pants. Springtime is nearly nonexistent. Slush just dissolves into heat and that’s the end of it.

In short, Will doesn’t necessarily have a favorite season, but he tolerates autumn better than he does the rest. Long enough to grant him time to prepare for winter while enjoying evenings that grow ever shorter with his pack running along the fields of his homestead.

Everything is also dying, which he supposes is apt in regards to where he currently stands.

He opens the front door to air out the house, letting the crisp breeze come in and touch every corner that smells of dog and sweat and cheap aftershave.

The quiet he once welcomed now feels heavy, _pregnant - like a dead horse carrying a “soon-to-be dead” man_. There are images Will knows will remain with him until the day he kicks it, and then there’s that. The stench of blood and viscera. The sound of a gasping man drowning in fluids that shouldn’t be swallowed whether dead or alive.

The rage simmers, however. It crackles just under his skin, the itch to pull the trigger and end it almost overwhelming. He envies. He _hates_ , but the full force of his hatred is misplaced and whole, not fragmented, as it ought to be. Instead, Will feels sweetness bubble up his chest and down his arms, lighting up his fingertips with sensations that should anger him but don’t.

Buster bumps his head against the back of Will’s hand and he smiles down at him, scratching behind the ear before patting the top of his head and telling him to go outside with the others. As if he can understand English, Buster huffs and pads out the door, into the golden sunlight.

With a sigh, Will scrubs a hand over his beard and gets down to business. First, he turns on the old radio over the fireplace, setting it to the one station it’s able to pick up all the way out in the middle of nowhere.

Will cleans to the sound of mellow music that is overtaken by acoustic guitars and the occasional fiddle, letting the noise filter through his brain and purge it of thoughts he could do without for the time being. He can think about mind games and complex metaphors on Friday night at 7:30, when his next appointment is as inevitable as the last.

No lies between them, not anymore. Hannibal had confessed to him in a moment of euphoria, whispered the words just inches away, how he had guided Will through his transformation all along. Hannibal had touched him. His hand on the back of Will’s head is a phantom sensation he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries.

A loud bark from outside and he blinks it away. 

_Clean, don’t think._ This winter will be as punishing as the last and he has precious little time left to prepare.

Yesterday, he had taken care of the fireplace and chopped wood, stacking the timber beside it. Today he dusts the bookshelves, figurines, picture frames, work desk, and piano; vacuums the couch, seats, and rug.

The bed gets a new bedspread. Empty bottles are cast in the trash and dog beds are thrown in the washing machine for a quick cycle. He polishes the windows and sweeps the floor and by the time he’s done it’s mid afternoon. He starts dinner for the dogs.

Next up is the kitchen and top floor of the house, but when he goes out on the porch to give the pack their dinner, it is revealed that the work he’d put into tidying the yard has been mercilessly unraveled.

“All right, which one of you was it?” he says to the mess of fur swamping the bowls that steam in the cool air. Unsurprisingly, no one comes forth to take the blame.

The black bags he had filled with dead leaves and tied with elaborate knots all lay shredded to pieces, leaving a sea of orange and brown to move in the cutting wind. He frowns, deciding that it wasn’t entirely the dogs’ fault considering he should have either discarded the bags or set them somewhere they couldn’t be reached.

Winston woofs and Will gives him a long-suffering look. “That better be you volunteering to help.” It isn’t, so Will skips on the kitchen for the time being and heads back inside to slip on a sweater. 

He takes the rake from the shed, then curses when he remembers that he’s out of bags. Regardless, he crunches his way back over leaves and twigs, wielding his rake like a weapon.

Physical work is a good thing. It focuses his thoughts on the task at hand and keeps them from wandering along paths that shouldn’t be disturbed quite yet. Right now, all Will has to do is pull the leaves into a pile and then he’ll drive into town and buy a box of bags. Although, common sense dictates that he should buy the bags first and then get to raking.

But when has he ever listened to common sense?

Will begins, working his way slowly but surely towards the porch. He creates a mound that slowly becomes a hill and then a mountain over by the tree, and clicks his tongue whenever the dogs try to get too close.

Neither upset nor relaxed, he mulls over the rest of the winter preparations while he works. Along with bags, he ought to buy some groceries and detergent, considering he’s running low on both. A new sweater is also likely in order, the one he’s currently wearing is moth eaten and has tiny holes along the collar.

He’s already invested in a new coat and a couple of shirts, finding the flannel that lines his closet worn out in more than just the physical sense. The solid colors feel safer against his skin, lending his feelings a sort of backbone he never knew he lacked. Partly, it has to do with vanity.

There’s an inherent need to not look like himself when he steps into Hannibal’s office, and he’d only become conscious of it three weeks after he had started up his sessions again. Be it because his old self no longer exists or because he doesn’t want to contaminate it any further, he isn’t sure. His time in the BSHCI had been enough to suspend him in a stasis. And maybe, like Hannibal has so eloquently said, his new sense of style is the equivalent of wings.

It's easier to chalk his new wardrobe choices up to this than the fact that Hannibal’s eyes tend to linger on him longer than is strictly appropriate. Best not to think of the trap he and Jack Crawford are setting into motion with himself as the bait in these terms; a man in passable clothing like a lure with nice feathers. Whether Jack understands or not, Will does. He knows perfectly well that he’s ensnaring Hannibal by using his own aesthetics against him.

Will is whoring himself out in an attempt to bring Hannibal to justice, but, somewhere along the way, the path has been hidden under brightly colored leaves.

His thoughts go back to the way Hannibal had touched him at the stables. The lingering caress of his hand, the way his fingers had threaded through his hair and brought him closer. For a terrifying moment, Will thought he was about to be kissed and praised for a job well done. He can still taste the adrenaline on the back of his tongue, the feeling of Hannibal's grip around his hand, in his hair.

Neither spoke of it again after the arrest, but Will hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Not when he cleans, works, talks to Jack, or comes in for his sessions. The sensation is so clear that he’s shamefully gotten off to it on more than one occasion.

He keeps trying to concentrate on what he is doing, and why, but it isn’t enough to stop him from tugging at his dick in the wee hours of the morning. It should disgust him, disturb him that he’s jerking off to thoughts of a serial killer touching him. It doesn’t.

Damn Hannibal for blurring the lines so well. Even with the constant weight of the truth on him, Will cannot bring himself to truly hate Hannibal. The lies, the games, the deaths, the abuse, apparently all that isn’t enough to make Will step back and put up his walls again. Clark Ingram he can hate, but not Hannibal, even after all that he’s done. In the end, Will has no one to blame but himself.

He stops what he’s doing to rub at the corners of his eyes, a sudden wave of tiredness settling into his limbs. He’s ready to call it a day when he hears it in the nearby distance.

The sigh is deep enough to rattle his lungs. 

Speak of the Devil.

Will walks over to the edge of the dirt road and farther down, heralded by the quiet purr of an engine, he sees the Bentley. He doesn’t stay put long enough to welcome it, but turns back to his chore, fighting the urge to fling the rake through the windshield. Hannibal most likely has good insurance.

Aggressively raking up the leaves the wind cruelly keeps blowing away from his impressive mountain, Will pretends he doesn’t hear the cutting off of the engine, or the opening and closing of a car door, or the crunch of leaves under very expensive shoes. He pretends quite well, but unfortunately, Hannibal’s patience is neverending.

“Shouldn’t you be tending to your other patients?” It’s Wednesday and it can’t be much past five in the afternoon. Weekdays usually stretch well into the night for Hannibal.

“My last appointment cancelled and I felt compelled to bring you coffee,” he says, and Will turns in time to see him lift a stainless steel thermos. “Care for a drink?”

Lifting an eyebrow, his reply is cut short when three of his largest dogs come prancing towards his guest and he has to call them back with a sharp whistle. Hannibal usually doesn’t have a problem being swarmed by a pack that greets him with a little too much enthusiasm, but the man is dressed more impeccably than usual. Will is sure he has never seen that coat on him. And the scarf is definitely one he hasn’t seen him wear before.

He chooses to ignore the thought that he’s been unconsciously cataloging Hannibal’s outfits for God knows how long.

Rather than deign him with an outright answer, Will gestures for Hannibal to wait for him on the porch until he’s done.

He goes back to aggressively raking his leaves.

What kind of person, especially one who is unspeakably busy at the best and worst of moments, takes the time to drive one hour into the middle of nowhere to bring someone coffee? This is a rabbit hole Will is wary of falling into. Every question poses a dangerous answer; one that makes perfect sense but he could very well do without.

Will isn’t an idiot. What started out as curiosity, as interest in the workings of Will’s mind, has evolved into a whole new monster. Hannibal might be cunning, always one step ahead, but Will can see his motives now. While it doesn’t make him any easier to predict, it allows Will more time to plan ahead.

The unreality of it all is unnerving. Here he stands, raking leaves with his back to the Chesapeake Ripper, who is currently waiting to serve him coffee on a porch crowded by over-excited dogs to the soft swells of some folk song bleeding through the open door. 

_Unnerving, maybe hilarious_ \- it’s all the same to Will nowadays.

Maybe he shouldn’t avoid naming this sort of thing. Fuck knows the whole avoidance-out-of-fear-of-the-truth game is what landed him with Abigail’s ear shoved down his throat by a person he considered to be his friend. Had he not denied the truth, allowed himself to see what Hannibal is much sooner than he had, things would be different.

First instinct tells him that psychopaths are incapable of feeling, but that’s not entirely true, especially not where Hannibal is concerned. Not only is Will unwilling to degrade and oversimplify what Hannibal is by defining it in such pedestrian terms, but Hannibal clearly experiences feelings on a spectrum not so dissimilar to the average person. If anything, he feels far more strongly than most… and that makes Will’s assumption all the worse.

Probably another _L Word_ should be in order. Lust rings far clearer in his head than any romantic inclination Hannibal may or may not have for him. But lingering looks are one thing, it's not like he's outright propositioned Will. Not that he's noticed, anyway.

Will fights the urge to look at Hannibal, to see if there’s anything in his body language that might confirm his suspicion, but he finds himself rooted to the spot with a very peculiar feeling rolling in the pit of his stomach.

Of course Hannibal doesn’t want him like that. Will’s just projecting his own frustrated desires.

Not even desires, because the last time he checked, he’s only ever found himself in bed with women. Then again, he’s never jacked off to thoughts of a man before either.

At this moment, he finds himself recalling something he had confided to Alana at the time of his arrest. He had told her about the scream he had perched under his chin, the one he feared that, if started, it simply wouldn’t end.

However, right now it isn’t a scream that’s building inside him, but a laugh. A hysterical one, but a laugh nonetheless.

It’s stupid.

All of this is stupid. From him, to Hannibal, to his lack of a sexuality crisis. The mere idea of feelings had and shared between the two of them. The chaos that has been unleashed and nearly destroyed him. The Chesapeake Ripper. Jack Crawford arresting a vegetarian for being the Ripper. His dogs breaking the bags, raking his yard, Hannibal bringing him coffee, a beautiful afternoon where everything is bathed in gold, and the situation that feels like a fucked up version of an impromptu date.

It’s so fucking stupid and Will would laugh if the breath hadn’t been knocked out of him. The world spirals out of his control as he flies through the air at what feels like breakneck speed and slow-motion simultaneously. He hits the ground. His perception is skewed for a few short seconds but, when he comes to, he finds himself blinking in the dazzling sunlight, extra weight on his stomach in the form of two and then four points of pressure.

Will blinks up at the sky as he sputters, running a hand down his face to brush off the fragments of dry leaves that poke his skin. The rest of the dogs rush him then, thinking it a game, pouncing into the mountain of leaves Will desecrated when Orwell pushed him into it.

It starts low in his belly, uncurling like a butterfly, just as wild and untamed. Will _laughs_ , heartily, loudly, and without hope of controlling it. He squeezes his eyes shut, the heels of his boots dragging across the ground as he tries, and fails, to sit up from the pile. Hot tears chase tiny streams down his cheeks and into his hair and he just _cannot stop_.

He is positively unhinged, and he’s strangely okay with that. That somehow explains everything and makes the world around him brighter, in some sort of twisted way. Will has never been capable of walking a straight line anyway.

Once he’s a little calmer, guffaws tamed into short bouts of giggles, Will opens his eyes to see a very concerned looking Hannibal gazing down at him. “Hello,” he says, unable to contain the grin that splits his face. More manic than happy, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

“Hello,” Hannibal returns, his features smoothening out into something more amused. “I’ve never seen anyone so delighted at being knocked down.”

Will snorts. “Once you hit the bottom, nowhere to go but up.”

Hannibal extends his hand to help Will up, and he sees his mistake just a moment too late. A flash goes off behind eyes that shine nearly red in the sunlight when he realizes what Will intends to do. 

His previous hesitation in regards to the expense of Hannibal’s outfit is dashed to hell the moment Will closes his hand around Hannibal’s and uses his weight to pivot him forward.

There’s something deeply pleasing about seeing Hannibal lose his balance, as inelegant as anyone else when he crashes into the pile right next to Will, sending up a rain of debris when he hits the ground.

Will has to stifle another laugh with the back of his hand when Hannibal regains his balance and sits up, leveling the house with a glare that would make the average person cower. It’s satisfying to see that he’s able to crack his perfectly constructed veneer with something so simple.

To have Hannibal fall with him into a sea of leaves is an experience worth cherishing, regardless of how complicated their relationship may be. The moment serves to remind Will that Hannibal is still human underneath the meticulously fabricated person suit.

“I’d apologize but I’m not exactly sorry,” Will says, attempting to suppress a hiccup and failing miserably. “Oh, fuck.”

Hannibal finally looks back to him. The irritation is gone, replaced by a thin sheen of fondness overlaying a mask of apathy. “I’ll be picking twigs and dog hair from my coat for hours.”

“No, you’ll just send it to the drycleaners. Live a little.”

“There are other far more appealing ways to consume the best of life than this, Will.”

He isn’t wrong, considering they’re currently being trampled by seven dogs of varying size. “Lay down, Hannibal.” Mandy insists on licking Will’s face, but he only laughs and pushes her away.

There’s a brief a moment in which Hannibal just looks down at him, considering his options, before surrendering to Will’s request. He lies on his back, hands on his stomach, staring up at the layer of gold and lilac that paints the sky overhead. “It’s quite the beautiful sunset,” he says, giving voice to Will’s thoughts. “The city hardly grants such a view.”

Will hums his agreement. He’d never given much thought to how the nature around him looked. The turbulent nature of his mind rarely allowed him the space to stop and admire the way the grass grows or how the sky changes color when the sun either hides or emerges. Trust Hannibal to point out the beauty in it.

“I guess it is nice when everything isn’t just white for miles.” He breathes in deep, the cool air soothing his throat and lungs. It smells of Earth and kitchen spices, courtesy of the man beside him. “Sorry about your coat.”

“You needn’t mind,” Hannibal says around a smile that is almost secretive. “Some things are worth sacrificing for a novel experience.”

“Never laid back in a huge pile of leaves with another person and looked at the sky?”

“Not as an adult, no,” he answers seriously, despite the obvious sarcasm in Will’s tone. “You have broadened my horizons and for that I owe you my gratitude. However shall I repay you?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Will can’t help the dozens of scenarios that render him silent. Not all of them are noble or particularly safe for work. “Maybe with some coffee, to warm up?”

Hannibal hums, but makes no move to rise so they stay there a little longer.

The dogs have lost interest and wandered away, beyond what Will can see out of his peripheral vision. Confident that he won’t be trampled, he shuts his eyes and allows himself to drift, if only for a moment.

The laughter had brought release, uncoiled his muscles and left him feeling miraculously airy. As always, Hannibal proves to be good company, even in his silence, providing a sense of safety that shouldn’t be but is there anyways. Will finds himself delighting in his presence, and he wonders if it would truly be so bad to surrender. If only for a moment.

When he opens his eyes Hannibal is looking over at him. “You didn’t come all this way to bring me coffee, did you?”

Hannibal turns his sights skywards again, taking in the deepening purple and the oncoming night. “I came to extend an invitation,” he says. “Please think on it before you decline.”

“Depends what exactly you’re inviting me to.”

“A party. It will be a small affair among close friends, and it would please me a great deal if you’d come.”

Will chooses not to answer immediately, counting the first stars that twinkle into existence. “What would you do to convince me?”

“What would it take?”

“More than coffee, I’ll tell you that.” Will quickly shuts his mouth, realizing how the remark sounds. All previous attempts at flirting have only ever ended in disaster. Yet, here he is, speaking as smoothly and frankly to his one-of-a-kind therapist as if he’d agree to attend in exchange for sex.

The thought finds traction. Maybe if they fucked and got it out of their systems the two of them could go on their merry ways: Hannibal could drop his obsession with Will and Will could walk away, cut the charade short by putting a bullet between Hannibal’s eyes. And maybe pigs can fly and Will Graham is the poster boy for emotional stability and good life choices.

Sex would just send them into an even steeper downward spiral. Fuck knows what kind of messed up kinks and fetishes Hannibal has up his sleeves; Will has a few of his own he’d rather never bring up to anyone ever again. He’s afraid to even consider what Hannibal might do if he got ahold of that information.

Besides, he shouldn’t even be thinking about banging his old flame’s boyfriend. He sends a mental apology to Alana, wherever she is.

“I’m not good at parties. You know that.”

“You could bring a friend, if it would put you more at ease. Perhaps Ms. Katz.”

Beverly would kick his ass if she knew. “I don’t think she likes you anymore.” She had gotten too close, much too close, to seeing Hannibal as he truly is. Will wonders why Hannibal has spared her this long, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“All the more reason for her to accompany you. She can keep you safe from me.”

“Do I _need_ to be kept safe from you?”

“I feel as if I should be the one asking that question,” Hannibal says, casting a thoughtful glance at Will before sitting up. “Are you going to try to kill me again?”

“No.” Will sits up with a groan, his back protesting the position held too long. “Not now that I finally find you interesting.” Getting to his feet, Will stretches before turning around to help Hannibal to his feet. “I promise not to point a gun at your head again. At least, not anytime soon.”

There is still righteous anger at the injustices done to him deep inside Will. It has settled into the base of his spine, strengthening his resolve. He will never forget that Hannibal framed him for his murders, stole nearly a year of his life, and deposited him into the tender care of Frederick Chilton at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

But that beast lies dormant, for the moment, and Will can deal with simpler issues. He can accept whatever camaraderie blooms between him and Hannibal, for now. But he will never forget. They both have scars to prove the other’s betrayal.

“Good,” Hannibal says, taking Will’s hand again. Trusting. Will fights the urge to let go of him a second time. “Perhaps, now, we’ll be able to move past this.”

“And then what?” 

It’s his turn to not answer.

To no one’s surprise, the coffee has gone cold, even though his thermos boasted six hours of functionality. Ignoring Hannibal’s complaints about its ruined contents, Will pours two mugs and pops them into the microwave. It smells sweet.

Noting that Hannibal has opted to stay outside, he briefly entertains the thought of inviting him in and setting them both up in front of the space heater to thaw. Instead, Will rummages for the cleanest smelling blanket he can find. He might as well abandon the farce that he can throw up walls with a snap of his fingers.

“Did you make this?” he asks, needlessly, while handing Hannibal a steaming mug. He has his coat, laying it over the small table Will had forgotten to put away yesterday. “Smells like there should be whipped cream on top.”

“Pumpkin spice,” Hannibal says, and to Will’s astonishment he looks a little bit sheepish. Hannibal Lecter. _Sheepish._ “The real kind, mind you. Imported from Colombia.”

“Of course it is.” Will puts his own mug and blanket on the railing, heading back inside to bring out another chair. He aligns it next to Hannibal’s and opens the thick blanket, wordlessly offering one end to him. “God forbid you buy the average brand coffee at a big name coffee shop.”

Hannibal says nothing and doesn't betray any emotion other than contentment as he drapes his end of the blanket over his shoulders and pulls it close.

Taking his mug, Will settles down in his chair and adjusts the other end over himself. He blames the heat in his cheeks on the steam rising up from his coffee. It’s cozy, which is not a word he ever thought he’d associate with Hannibal. “It’s a clever invitation.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The smile is all in Hannibal’s eyes as they nearly glimmer under the porch light.

It’s a perfectly normal evening; sharing a blanket and good coffee under the cover of autumn stars.

Will diverts his attention to the yard where the leaf piles, destroyed by the dogs, no longer hold the impressions of their bodies. The rake is leaning against the tree, and he thinks it’s a miracle he didn’t end up with a bruised rib or two.

So many places are tainted for him now, painted over with blood and tragedy, leaving ghosts to tread on his heels. To have this small respite, with contentment enveloping him tighter than the blanket on his shoulders, makes it a little easier to breathe. He never thought that making good memories with Hannibal would ever be possible.

He’ll have to call the dogs back soon, just to maintain the cosmic balance of things. “When’s the party?”

“This coming Saturday.”

Will nods, then stops when the realization hits him. “You’re joking.” At Hannibal’s quick side glance, he elaborates. “Are you seriously throwing a Halloween party?”

“This surprises you.”

“Yeah, it does.” Will laughs before sealing his lips to the porcelain edge of his mug. The coffee is really good. “Is it a costume party?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What if I said I’d only go if it’s a costume party?”

Hannibal turns to look at him fully, a miniature frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Difficult to imagine you in costume.”

“Likewise,” Will says, lifting his mug as if to toast. “Are you going to hire help like the last time?” The last time, when Will had driven an hour through the snow to take Hannibal a bottle of wine.

Well, that explains that.

A hand pressed to his face, Will chuckles. “Do you still have that bottle?”

At long last, Hannibal gives him a real smile. It touches his mouth, cheeks, and eyes, shedding years off him and forcing Will to look away, dazzled. “I’m afraid not,” he confesses. “I may have had a temporary lapse of judgement and succumbed to a compulsion.”

Will raises his eyebrows, though he keeps his eyes on the steaming content of his mug. He doesn’t press, Hannibal’s tone and posture convey his meaning perfectly well. He is curious about what would drive Hannibal to get wasted on a bottle of cheap wine. Best not to waste the good stuff, he assumes.

“To answer your earlier question, no,” Hannibal says, taking his first sip of coffee. “I’ll have the joy of preparing everything myself.”

“I could help, if you want.” It’s easier to work behind the curtain, in a way. “Though I’d probably just end up getting in the way.”

“I would greatly appreciate any help you’re willing to offer.”

Will nods his head. “Trust me enough to shop for ingredients?” It’s a loaded question that is meant as exactly that. 

Never one to disappoint, Hannibal isn’t fazed. “I could facilitate you a list.”

There’s a farmer’s market thirty minutes out of Baltimore, and an international one an hour away. He can either run the errand early Saturday or Friday after work, that way it would grant him more time for subsequent stops if the first one doesn’t yield everything on the list.

“Don’t forget to jot down pumpkins,” Will finds himself saying, sinking back into his chair and deeper into the blanket. “Not that I’d forget those. What’s Halloween without pumpkins?”

And what would life be if they were just two normal people fretting over a Halloween party?

The normalcy mocks him, reminding him of things he can never have. Not in this life. Not with Hannibal. Not with the one person who sees and accepts him for who he is, who elevates his imperfections and venerates them like works of art.

It’s a humbling thought, and a frightening one, that maybe, just maybe, Hannibal Lecter is capable of, and, in fact, does feel a strange sort of love for Will. Even if it’s only because they have seen each other, haven’t shied away from knowing each other, using a language that is only expressed through violence.

Will wants, and he envies, and taking will only result in him giving into a life he shouldn’t entertain the thought of. Not really. Not outside of the supposed con he’s supposed to be partaking in.

“Winter may come sooner than expected,” Hannibal says, more to himself than to Will.

He can do nothing but agree.


	2. Chapter 2

“We should get fries for lunch,” Beverly says. These are the first words she’s spoken to him since she unceremoniously dropped into the passenger’s seat at Quantico and slammed the car door with enough force to rattle the windows.

Will’s grip tightens on the steering wheel as they turn onto the highway. Traffic is heavy, but it's not like either of them have somewhere else to be. “Sounds nutritious.”

“I cannot _believe_ you.”

“What?”

“Now you’re eating like him, too?”

“That’s not…” Will pauses, exhaling sharply through his nose. “All I mean is that we should get burgers, too. Or chicken nuggets.”

It isn’t the first time she’s gotten mad at him, but it has been a long time since she's gotten in his car, uninvited, to yell at him. Beverly may have good reason for wanting to rip his head off, nevertheless he feels the need to remind her that he is, in fact, a grown ass man capable of making his own decisions. 

_In theory, anyway._

“I don’t get it,” she sighs, resting her elbow on the door and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I want to, but I don’t. I _can’t_. Will, six months ago you were going on about how he killed and _ate_ all those people and now you’re making googly eyes at him.”

“Chilton is the Chesapeake Ripper. Miriam Lass confirmed it.” He balks at the lie, and how easily it comes out of his mouth.

Beverly turns to look at him, almond eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe that. I don’t believe that. Neither does Jack, for that matter.”

“Hannibal isn’t who you think he is, Bev.”

“Yes, he is. I saw enough to know he is and it pisses me the fuck off that you’re denying it now too.”

“You weren’t the one that got locked up. All you got is a slap on the hand for breaking and entering. If anything, you should be grateful he dropped the charges.” It’s an unfair argument, he knows, and it sits like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. Speaking to her this way after all she’s done, after sticking by him from the very beginning.

She keeps her eyes on him for what feels like minutes. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Will casts her a dumbfounded look before remembering himself and turning back to the road. He can feel his face warm all the way to the tip of the ears under the heat of her scrutiny. “No.”

“Your face says you want to sleep him. Will, what the fuck?”

“I don’t want to sleep with him.”

“He and Dr. Bloom are an _item_.”

Will goes quiet when an ugly sensation seizes his chest. “I know they are,” he says, and the words have a sharper edge than he'd intended.

He’s not sure how it's come to this. One moment he’s entertaining thoughts about shooting Dr. Lecter and the next he’s replaying a moment shared on his porch, over and over again. The thought that his obsession with that moment, and his desire for it to be repeated, has less do with lust and more to do with a hunger to feel that quiet intimacy again, is a frightening one.

“What the hell did he do to you?” Her question is uncharacteristically soft, easing off the hostility when she takes him in. “Is this some kind of empathy thing?” Will doesn’t answer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on him. Which would be pretty fucked up considering your shared history.”

“It’s only a party. And you'll be there, right?”

“I promised myself I'd never step foot in that house again,” she says, turning away to look out the window. The clouds are beginning to gather. “But if you need me to be there, I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’ll go. But I’m bringing Price and Zeller with me.”

“This isn’t an investigation.”

“Who said it was? I plan to get wasted and embarrass you, get your head back in the game and make you realize that you don’t want to be in cahoots with a murderer. Or, that you shouldn’t want to, anyway.”

“Because he’s dating Alana.”

“Because you deserve better,” she says, still not looking at him. “Because it’s his fault you were arrested and thrown into a loony bin. Even if he didn’t do it on purpose, even if he isn’t the Ripper, it was his job to make sure you were okay. He should have noticed you were sick and gotten you the proper help.”

Will breathes long and steady, changing lanes and reading the signs over the exit ramps. It’s going to start raining soon, and he’d like to get to the market before they get the brunt of it.

Beverly knows too much, way, way too much. It’s only a matter of time before she gets a lucky break. Part of him wants to clue her in on what he and Jack have planned, but another part of him urges silence, especially when he is so unsure if he'll be able to go through with it after all. Regardless, the less people know of it, the better. It'll make it easier to play both sides until he is forced to chose, one way or another.

“I didn’t even know you swung that way.”

He huffs. “I said I don’t want to sleep with him.”

“But you will, because I know men. Lecter’s a hedonist and he’ll be down to take a bite of the Graham cracker.” Will runs a hand down his face, sparing her an exasperated glare. She merely snorts. “You’re redder than a tomato.”

“Your insights could use some work.”

“Although, it is kind of funny,” she murmurs. “By funny, I mean convenient.”

Will takes the turnoff just as it begins to drizzle. “What’s convenient?”

“Lecter didn’t start seeing Dr. Bloom until after you were behind bars.”

His thumbnail digs into the faded leather of the steering wheel, making grooves which echo the ones made during bouts of anxiety and disassociation. Standing on the outside and looking in through the fogged windows of Hannibal’s palace, Will has seen that Alana is no more than an alibi. Although Hannibal holds her in high esteem, as high as he can muster for a mere mortal anyway, the fact that he chose Alana to be his partner is a jab that sits wicked on Will’s tongue. 

“You think he did it to get back at me?” He does his best to sound incredulous, and, while forced, Beverly seems to buy it. “You keep saying I’m the Chesapeake Ripper so now I’m gonna bang the woman you’ve had a crush on for years?” Will forces out a laugh and puts his turn signal on. “That’s very childish.”

The rain is pouring in earnest by the time they see the wooden sign at the beginning of a dirt road, announcing that the farmer’s market is a couple of miles into the field. Their adventure is going to get muddy, and he hopes Beverly is wearing appropriate shoes.

“Wait. Is _that_ why you think he did it?”

Will slows down to avoid skidding. He casts her a brief glance. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”

It’s her turn to laugh. “Not even close! First of all, Lecter is an adult, a professional, and extremely polite, despite whatever nefarious things he might get up to on his spare time. I just think the guy got lonely without you around to talk to every once in awhile.”

Stunned into silence, Will buys himself a moment to think while looking around the sturdier patches of land for a place to park. He finds one under a tree near the vendors’ tents and cuts the engine.

That’s one way to look at it, one that hadn’t crossed his mind at all. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t make decisions based on something as nonsensical as feelings. Or does he? Maybe that’s what makes him so dangerous, so unpredictable. His violence exacerbated by his emotions, rather than tempered by them. The implications are staggering.

“You’re suggesting he has feelings for me.”

“Feelings or not, he’s still a dick for getting serious with someone else just ‘cause he’s lonely,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the umbrella in the backseat. “He only visited you with Dr. Bloom once, right? All the other times he was by himself. He definitely visited you more often than he needed to.”

“Only because I asked him to.”

“And that says more about you than about him. He could have refused after you sicked the orderly on him. He didn’t.”

“I’m not sure exactly what your stance on this is.”

“My stance is that this is a bad idea. I'm annoyed that I broke the law to prove that Lecter isn't what everyone thinks he is, and that I wasn't even able to bring back any proof to backup my knowledge. But that's not your fault. What _is_ your fault and what annoys me the most is that you _know_ , and I know you know, but you’re sitting here trying to tell me that he isn't what we both know he is. You’re _lucid_ , Will, and you’re talking about Lecter like he's anyone else. Like he's just some friend you might have a thing for. Like you're angry he's with someone else.”

“I’m not angry because he’s dating Alana. I’m angry because I’m bitter about the fact that he’s doing so.”

The look Beverly gives him makes the hair along his neck stand on end. “That’s totally not the point, and you know it.”

“I see your point, I do, but I was _wrong_. The evidence is compelling, but so was the case against me and I was innocent. So he cooks fancy shit using animal organs you or I wouldn't look at twice, it isn’t that big a deal. Hannibal is weird, sure, but he’s not the Ripper.”

“You know what? Fine. Have it your way, Graham. But I swear to fuck, if you disappear and I get a pretentiously wrapped takeout container delivered to the morgue, I’m personally shooting Lecter in the face.”

“Not if I shoot him first.”

Beverly smiles, begrudgingly, at this, and the tension is broken. 

Once out of the car, Will makes a run for the tents, letting Beverly take the umbrella. When he reaches the cover of the tent, he shakes the excess water off his jacket, an unconscious imitation of his dogs. Then he scrubs both hands through his hair to try and do the same. Almost immediately, his senses are assaulted by the smell of apples and cinnamon and the memory of fresh baked pie so strong he can almost taste it.

The area is crowded, but he stays on the sidelines while he waits for Beverly to catch up. “Is this like a very serious edition of fuck, marry, kill?” she asks once she joins him, having deposited the umbrella into a wicker container at the entrance. A useless gesture, considering the floor’s already covered in muddy tracks. “Where the only options are each other?”

Will grimaces at her remark, but it goes unnoticed. She picks up one of the larger baskets and pushes it in his direction. He takes it and pulls a neatly folded piece of paper from his back pocket. It’s too thick to be from an average notepad. “I propose a subject change.”

“No way, Jose. If I’m going to a party in that man’s house, I’m tormenting you in turn with conjecture about how good he must be in bed.”

Will almost chokes on his saliva. “How would you even know that?”

“Please. I’m a behavioral analyst in my spare time, remember? Lecter’s freaky enough to be, well, freaky.”

“We are not having this conversation.”

“You don’t have to reply for this to be a conversation,” she says, walking next to him and bumping her hip against his. “So, what’s the first item on that list of his?” She plucks the paper from his hand and lifts an eyebrow. “This is so domestic I might cry. Hell, this is so domestic I'm starting to doubt that he hasn't actually fucked you yet.”

“Beverly!” Will bites out, following her down an aisle of wooden crates towards the fresh fruit.

“Disappointed he didn’t doodle any hearts along the border.”

“ _Katz._ ”

“Don’t last name me, Graham. You’re not half as intimidating as you think you are, especially when you’re blushing like a virgin on their wedding night.”

The rain is pelting the tarp even harder than when they arrived, showing no inclination to let up any time soon. Despite her teasing, Beverly keeps most of her thoughts to herself from there on out, only speaking to ask which of the produce would live up to Hannibal’s scrutiny.

He follows her around with the basket hanging from his arm, poking at whatever vegetables catch his attention. He decides he wouldn’t mind learning how to prepare more complex dishes, broadening his palate as well as tuning his taste buds to the finer wines set before him. 

Loathe as he is to admit the increasing disparity between what the law dictates and what he feels is right, Will can’t help but add this to the balance as well. Hannibal has seen him, too. His intention has never been to carve Will in his image, only to coax out what had always been lurking in the deepest, darkest corners of his being. Honestly, it seems that all Hannibal ever wanted was to make Will realize that he is Hannibal’s equal. He wants Will to see and accept, join him in whatever future Hannibal seems to think possible for them both.

Will vehemently wishes he didn't have this knowledge. It creates a lightness in him, when it should do just the opposite.

Philosophically, one could argue that all humans inherit some darkness, which can either remain repressed or be released, usually by personal choice or some traumatizing experience. Hannibal chose to embrace his, reveling in a carnage that, for him, is as natural and right as breathing.

This places Will on unsteady ground. How far can he blame trauma when he enjoys the freedom that comes from self-acceptance? He’s gotten a taste for it, and it should horrify him. Experiencing first-hand how ugly it is to take a life should have been enough for him to keep that part of himself locked away permanently.

Instead, here he stands, perfectly aware of what Hannibal might be making for dinner, yet unable to muster up even a glimmer of outrage. He simply feels warm and cared for, like he’d felt when Hannibal drove all the way to Wolf Trap with pumpkin spice coffee for them to share under a starry night.

Will stops walking when he notices someone approaching, but his lack of a reaction has just as much to do with the sudden realization that he feels loved by Hannibal as it does with the face that Alana Bloom has materialized right in front of him.

Beverly is, of course, nowhere to be found.

“Will!” She sounds genuinely pleased to see him, but her smile stops the moment it begins to form. The sudden tightness around her eyes casts no allusions to where they both stand in a friendship gone horribly wrong. “I’m surprised to see you all the way out here.”

In lieu of a proper response, he vaguely lifts the arm holding the half-full basket of ingredients. “Dinner requires a few things that aren’t exactly common,” he says after a moment, taking in the very nice, very elegant, and very expensive looking coat she’s wearing. In better lighting, he’s certain a barely-noticeable plaid pattern would be seen.

He wouldn't have thought her to be the type. She’d always gone on about how she never did relationships. Casual flings were more her thing.

His mouth goes sour.

“Feeling adventurous?” she says, taking a peek in the basket while making sure that her own doesn’t bump into his leg.

“I’m not the one cooking.”

The words are enough to get her to look up, their meaning perfectly clear.

Their last conversation is obviously still at the forefront of both their minds, accusations of foul-play and the instigation of violence that cut deeper than they should have considering they weren’t exactly untrue. A warm friendship dashed _when_ she started sleeping with Hannibal - not _because_ she did - and turned her back on Will.

He shouldn’t be so bitter about it. After all, he _did_ send someone to kill Hannibal, and he _did_ accuse him of unspeakable (and true) crimes during his incarceration. Add to that the expert cunning with which Hannibal can easily blind those before him to obvious truths.

Alana isn’t at fault. When - and he's certain it's "when", not "if" - the scales fall from her eyes, her rage will be formidable and unstoppable. He allows the unbidden certainty that he and Hannibal will be standing side by side when it does.

Eyebrows arched, she says, “He usually does this himself.”

“He’s been busy preparing for the party, so I thought I’d give him a hand by supplying the ingredients. It’s the least I can do.”

“Are you okay?” As much as it feels like a non sequitur, the way she is looking at him speaks volumes. To his surprise, he doesn’t sense anger or even hostility simmering beneath the surface of her impassive features. In their place rests a suspicion that is sharp and forming. She’s piecing it together and, while she is unable to see the truth of him just yet, the seed of doubt has been planted, courtesy of Freddie Lounds. Will has no intention of watering it. The rain will do that on its own.

“Honestly? I’m more okay than I’ve been a while,” he admits, a small smile pulling at the side of his mouth. It’s an odd truth, one he's still halfheartedly struggling with. He keeps on walking, approaching the stall stocked with green apples and wondering if he could make a request. “Being in therapy is the best thing for someone one like me.”

“Is it really therapy at this point?” Alana doesn’t follow him, shoulders squared and mouth set in a tight line. “You can’t be friends with your therapist, Will. It’s why we would never have worked.”

It’s a low blow that says more than she may have been intending to. _If we didn’t work, what makes you think you two will?_ But he and Hannibal wouldn’t work. They’d fit together so well they would end up trying to kill each other time and time again until either or both succeed.

“That’s beside the point.” He neither confirms nor denies her unspoken suspicion. He wonders how Hannibal would react if she were to ask him if they were sleeping together. “Hannibal’s a good friend and a good therapist.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.” Will takes the apples, running his thumb along the glossy surface, testing for bruises before putting them in his basket. “Are you coming tomorrow?”

The casual nature of the question catches her off guard and Will feels a thrill, quickly followed by an aftershock of guilt. He shouldn’t be taking pleasure in this.

“Of course I am,” and with that, she turns and walks away.

It isn’t the first time she’s done so.

By the time he finds Beverly, who had wandered off to engage in conversation with someone or another, he’s paid for the first round of groceries.

“You know we’re not even halfway done, right?” she reminds him, waving the list in his face.

He's very aware how much there is left to do but after his tense conversation with Alana he needed something to do other than walk around aimlessly. “It’s a lot of stuff,” he says, by way of an explanation. “There’s even two pumpkins on there. I’ll take these to the car first and then come back for the rest.”

The downpour hasn’t let up and he forgoes the umbrella again, his shoes kicking up sprays of mud as he makes a run for it.

What Will doesn’t tell her is that he made a small side-purchase. A little gift for his gracious host. And maybe a little retribution for Alana's insistence she knows Hannibal better than he does.

Once everything is neatly stacked in the back of Will’s car, he and Beverly skip the fast food chains and drive right up to the nearest bar in Baltimore that sells hamburgers and french fries.

***

“I bumped into Alana at the market,” Will announces when the door opens after the second knock. The absence of bitterness is a victory he has no time to relish in.

“Hello to you, too,” Hannibal says, smiling that muted smile of his as he helps Will with the groceries. 

He doesn’t comment on Will’s unspoken suspicion. While Will might have volunteered to run the errand, he has no doubt that Hannibal would have predicted he would do so, or that he was above arranging for him to run into Alana there.

“Was it nice to see her? I’m aware your last meeting didn’t go favorably.”

Will hauls the last of the bags from the car and deposits them on the kitchen island, mindful of the carafe. There’s also two plates displaying a variety of cheeses and fancy crackers.

“Among other things,” Will says. He begins unpacking, picking his words with care. “She seemed affronted that I was doing your shopping.”

“Alana still thinks you might try to harm me.”

“She was also wearing a really nice coat.”

Hannibal stiffens ever so slightly at this, and pauses to give Will a thoughtful look. “I hope you let her know that you liked it.”

Shrugging, he says, “It looked like something you’d wear.”

He hadn't intended to make that observation out loud, but an unsettling sort of nervous energy is curling around his stomach. And the beers he shared with Beverly before dropping her off aren't exactly helping him keep his mouth (or thoughts) in check.

“Would you be opposed to receiving such gifts?” The question’s spoken while Hannibal slips vegetables into their corresponding baskets beside the sink, his back to Will. “I was confident that you would be against such affections, but it seems I may have misjudged you.”

Standing by the island, with his hands resting on one of the canvas tote bags, Will blinks at the back of Hannibal’s head. He takes in the perfectly combed sandy hair and the sliver of skin that’s visible before the collar interrupts the sight. The elegant slope of his shoulders and his broad back, the subtle curve of his waist giving way to his hips, accented by the cut of his suit.

In his initial profile of Hannibal Lecter, Will had deemed him handsome in the same way his eclectic decor is; strange, at first, but growing on the senses the more one looks at it.

Will has never thought of his desire for Hannibal as physical. Until now. Gazing at him, basking in the feelings of safety and acceptance that Hannibal exudes when they are together, Will can feel himself warming to the idea of lying in his bed. Just once. Just to know what it’s like.

And just like every other touch-deprived, and slightly tipsy, person, the mere thought of physical intimacy sparks an ember low in his body,

No, Hannibal is completely right with regards to Will not liking to be on the receiving end of gifts. But though he may not want them himself, it seems he does not wish Hannibal to give them to anyone else, either.

To think he’s stooped this low without even noticing.

“I’d accept gifts. Within reason,” he confides, savoring the way his unexpected admission brings Hannibal up short.

“Such as?”

“I’d like you to make me a pie.”

Hannibal turns to him then. His face is an impassive mask once again, his instinctive mistrust towards Will's outburst of sincerity obvious in his sudden attempt to create distance between them. He assesses him, in his professional, detached manner, before approaching the island. Will can sense that lion is truly in the room now.

They stand motionless, face to face, with nothing but an island and the assortment of groceries between them. The tension is thick enough to cut.

Will has no trouble meeting his gaze now, a color that dances between brown, yellow, and red. Ever changing to fit the mood or the situation, much like Hannibal himself. Always evolving. Always blending in, despite sticking out like a neon sign. Will wonders, not for the first time, if Hannibal is entirely human after all. Knowing all the man has accomplished, the idea of there being supernatural forces at play isn't all that far-fetched.

The hard exterior of his mask softens as he stares through Will, making his way through layer after layer of carefully created armor and uncovering secrets he has no hopes in keeping buried, not where Hannibal is concerned. As if Hannibal was removing physical garments, rather than metaphysical ones, Will shivers as the most sensitive areas are laid bare to be picked apart and studied. Where he’s pushed others away for years on end, he welcomes Hannibal with an open heart.

Hannibal, whose tongue sweeps his lower lip as if he can taste Will’s unexpected surrender, the look in his eyes making Will weak in the knees.

Sweeter still is the surprise when Hannibal breaks eye contact first, looking down almost coyly, angling his head in a gesture that is so submissive Will feels his cock twitch. When he looks up again, there’s nothing but naked hunger and a predatory desire so obvious Will wonders how he never saw it in the first place.

“A traditional, Southern apple pie.” Hannibal's voice is low and beguiling, and he is not even trying to disguise the fact that his gaze is completely focused on Will's mouth.

In turn, Will, feeling brave and a little reckless, pushes his tongue between his lips and is rewarded with the involuntary bob of Hannibal’s adam’s apple. “I trust it’ll be delicious, but I ought to admit that I like it sweeter than it should be.”

“Do you intend to eat it all yourself?” Will feels like Hannibal should have added _selfish boy_ to the end of that question.

“I intend for us to share.” It’s as much consent as Will is verbally willing to give, thinking he might just enjoy Hannibal’s brand of seduction outside of violence.

“How generous of you.” Hannibal straightens up to search for the apples. “I hope I do not disappoint.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of disappointing me,” Will says. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud when Hannibal stops dead, his expression utterly blank. “Oh, and I figured I might as well pick up some favors for tomorrow night. I hope I haven’t been too forward.”

He can’t help but admire Hannibal’s composure as he reaches into the tote and pulls out the tiny bundles of recycled material, laying them on the countertop.

Ten ghosts made up of white fabric wrapped around a tiny ball of hay and tied with twine, fifteen paper bats, bundles of cotton meant to be stretched out and hung as spiderwebs with tiny plastic spiders ready to be attached, an assortment of wooden plaques of witches riding broomsticks, and a dozen foam tombstones.

Personally, Will thinks he got them at a bargain price. “It isn’t a Halloween party unless you get a bit spooky. Don’t you get trick-or-treaters?”

Hannibal considers the harmless decorations for a moment, and then - by some deity’s twisted idea of a joke - he smiles. A bright smile that conveys an alarming amount of humor, more so than Will has ever seen the man express. He even laughs, briefly closing his eyes in a rare display of delight. Will is utterly _flabbergasted_ by this reaction.

For the first time, Hannibal looks truly normal, affectionately amused by a gesture made to poke fun at him.

A sudden ache squeezes at Will’s heart before he returns the laugh. What he’d done to spite Hannibal has backfired so completely that all he wants to do now is press a kiss onto those upturned lips. For a moment, he wishes this is all they were: two friends, with the potential to be so much more, no deadly games to be played in the dark and no choices to be made that will almost certainly lead to blood.

“Well,” says Hannibal, picking up the charcuterie plates and setting them in the refrigerator. “We should get to hanging those up, yes? I don’t suppose you brought extra pumpkins.”

“Just the ones you asked for.” Will scratches the back of his neck, trying to keep the laughter still bubbling in his chest from escaping. “I really didn’t think you’d go for this.” He pauses. “ _Are_ you going for this?”

“The only inconvenience this presents is that I may have to purchase candy bars. Luckily, I have an appointment first thing tomorrow and I’ll be able to make a quick stop for those. Will you lend me a hand with these?”

Will shakes his head, unbelieving, but he’s already reaching for his jacket. “We’re going to need some tape.”

***

Dating is a concept Will is familiar with, albeit not by an extensive amount of hands-on practice. Most of his attempts have, over the years, ended in horrendous and humiliating failure, forcing him to come to terms with the fact that settling down with someone, at this point in his life, is something he just won’t be doing.

Enter Hannibal.

Their romance - because that’s exactly what it has been since the very beginning - is as far from normal as the two of them. From therapy to betrayal to plotting to friendship to this, whatever _this_ entails, it’s been a dark and foggy path Will has been blindly stumbling down.

And now, here they are.

There are clumpy strands of cotton in Hannibal’s hair and tape stuck to Will’s shoes. 

They’ve weathered strange glances and rude stares from those who live along the street, who obviously don’t appreciate Hannibal’s stately home being turned into a fun house that invites miscreant children in Walmart costumes to stalk their white collar patch of residences. To Will’s satisfaction, Hannibal doesn’t seem to care about them as long as Will is next to him, stifling smirks and airy chuckles.

Adjusting the last tombstone, Will looks over and catches Hannibal stretching up to tie one more bat to one of the porch’s columns. His suit jacket rides up just enough to betray the snug fit of his pants, and Will realizes that he’s never seen Hannibal wear anything this tight before. Aside from being an insufferable tease, his confidence in Will’s lingering gaze is further evidence that Hannibal may just know him better than he knows himself.

“That is the last of it,” Hannibal announces, stepping back to look up at his house. “I think it looks quite charming.”

Naturally, they skipped the gaudier decorations, and scattered the ones they had agreed on along the porch and front windows. _Symmetrically_ scattered, because otherwise it won't be recognized as Hannibal's design, just as much as Will's.

One pumpkin is valiantly surrendered to the cause, with Hannibal putting his infamous carving skills to good use, and Will rummaging the hallway closet for a spare battery operated LED light. They place it next to the front door.

They head back inside, quietly enjoying the sense of domesticity their activity has created. Hannibal decants the wine as Will wanders into the study, hands in his pockets. He feels almost giddy and can't seem to stand still.

There’s one more thing Hannibal hasn’t seen, currently hiding in his trunk. He blames the purchase on the alcohol, and Beverly’s raunchy speculations, if he’s being honest. But that can wait until tomorrow. He’s teased the man enough for one day.

“Will you be staying for dinner this evening?” Hannibal asks, bringing in a charcuterie plate and placing it on his desk. His hair is neatly combed once more, any trace of physical labor a mere memory. “Jack will be joining me,” he cautions.

“I don’t think Jack would appreciate this,” Will says. He sweeps his wine glass in a motion that encompasses the two of them. “He’s suspicious enough as it is.”

“You both will be gracing my table tomorrow evening, regardless. Among others.”

“Showing up at your place twice in one week.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Hannibal pierces an intricately folded sliver of pink meat and dabs it over a dark colored sauce. For a moment, Will thinks he intends to feed it to him by hand, but, in the end, Hannibal only presents the morsel for Will to take. “I would greatly enjoy your company.”

“You always enjoy my company.” Feeling a need to test the boundaries of their newfound intimacy, he closes the remaining space between. He loosely wraps his fingers around Hannibal’s hand, bringing it inches away from his chin. He keeps his eyes on the beautifully presented bite, only shutting them when he takes it into his mouth. He doesn't release the warm hand until after he's swallowed and opened his eyes again, looking Hannibal full in the eye. “It’s good.” Then, with a sip of his wine, he turns away to stride up to the window.

If Hannibal has any lingering doubts about Will's desire for him, they have definitely been laid to rest.

The tension is back, but it bears very little resemblance to the one they had shared in the kitchen over an hour ago.

“Your actions speak of possessive urges,” Hannibal says, and Will senses, rather than hears, his proximity. He doesn’t turn around to check, but he knows Hannibal has silently moved and is standing very close.

“What else do they speak of, doctor?”

“A distaste for my current choice in partnership. Perhaps because it isn't you.”

Will rolls a shoulder, humming in agreement. “Does that surprise you?”

“I could never entirely predict you.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Just as Will brings the glass to his lips he feels the static charge of a touch almost brushing his skin. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Hannibal leaning in, the tip of his nose perilously close to the hollow where Will's neck meets his shoulder. “I'm far from certain, but I think this would be easier it if was all, or nothing.”

“You fear for Alana’s safety.” Hannibal’s breath tickles the fine hairs on his nape, but he stays just shy of making contact. “I’ve yet found reason to harm her. I enjoy her companionship.”

“She shouldn’t be a part of this.”

“She was doomed to participation when she chose to befriend you.”

Will refrains from grinding his teeth. “Not when she entered your sphere of influence?”

“Alana has been a static character since the start, and it would have been in her best interest to remain so. When you and I met and I felt the stars shift to accommodate that moment, I accepted the inevitability of various outcomes.”

“That she, Jack, everyone we have in common could be collateral damage.”

“If they defied those stars, yes.”

“You took her to your bed.”

“You wouldn’t have considered it, otherwise,” Hannibal confesses. “Alana has served her purpose and I have treated her as a gentleman should.”

“You slept with her to lure another man,” Will says, incredulous that Hannibal would stoop so low. “That’s not gentlemanly. That’s just rude.”

“I was intimate with her because the opportunity presented itself and she desired it. You might have done the same with any other woman in a bout of loneliness, though your heart was elsewhere.”

It’s a common enough practice, one whose banality doesn’t sit well with Will when applied to Hannibal. While others would disguise their motives to not come off as insensitive or cruel, Hannibal admits his without shame. 

Will would like to think him above this, but then again, Hannibal doesn’t hesitate turning to trivialities for the sake of his person suit. Better to paint himself as human, weak and imperfect as any other man whose love went unrequited.

There truly is no disrespect towards Alana. Dishonesty, yes, but Hannibal would never shame or humiliate her. A chivalrous devil.

A devil who, for some unfathomable and cosmic reason, has fixated on Will.

This is a very different Hannibal from the aloof and calculating killer Will has sat across from countless times before.

“I’m here now,” Will says. He looks out the window, the yellow, brown, and orange leaves adding to the charm of the decorated yard, but he keeps an eye on Hannibal’s reflection. He’s a mere breath away and all Will has to do is lean back.

“I’m curious as to why.” Hannibal meets Will’s shifting gaze through the window. “Because of her, or me?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Yes.”

Will nods his head. “Both,” he admits. “I want her out of the picture, Hannibal.” The word _safe_ goes unsaid. “And I want in.” He licks his lips, noting that he seems to have made up his mind without much fanfare. “I want…” he begins, words wavering around a shaky smile. “I want to see you. To be seen by you.”

He wants the beautiful carnage Hannibal embodies, the violence and the affection he can give. Will wants to be the center of it all, of the death and adoration. Selflessly, because it’ll spare those around them from Hannibal’s knife. Selfishly, because he feels, on some metaphysical level, that Hannibal is his to destroy. His to love.

In the end, it isn’t Hannibal who forces him to open the door. He walks through of his own volition, fully aware of what he leaves behind. And what awaits him on the other side. He shuts it tight, the bolt of his fate sliding home. The ink black snout of the stag greets him, bowing its head to stir matter on subatomic levels, its wicked antlers rearranging stars and kicking up storms.

Horror and beauty, all tied into one awesome gift. A gift, well outside of reason, that Will inevitably accepts. 

A hand to his bicep startles him, piercing through the red tinged film of his fantasy. The touch is soft, hesitant even, just a thumb rubbing gentle circles into the tense muscle of Will’s arm. It’s electrifying. It’s _freeing._

“You may use the washroom on the second floor to freshen up.” Soft words that are nearly a purr, almost enough to make Will’s knees fold under him. “Jack will be here shortly, and you’ll feel better after you’ve rinsed the stench of hay and mud away. And the glue.”

“What about my clothes?”

“I’ll procure something for you.”

When Hannibal disappears into the kitchen, Will looks down at his shoes and immediately discovers the true reason for his insistence. Not only is he trailing mud around, but it would be rude to sit at the dinner table with an obvious erection. It would just worsen a quickly deteriorating situation.

To his complete lack of surprise, the washroom that has been offered to him is the one in Hannibal's bedroom. He makes use of the amenities available to him, the shampoo and the soap that smells rich and feels exquisite as it slides down his body, excited by the knowledge that these are Hannibal’s things.

Will takes his time, scrubbing his old life away so he can emerge brand new. He tries not to think of the heavy thickness between his legs, but it’s _there_. It twitches every time he considers where he is, and why. It beads with moisture when he indulges in thoughts of what this new change will bring.

It's easy to imagine Hannibal here with him. Sharp teeth to his neck, soft lips to his jawline. Confident fingers wrapping around his stiff cock, pushing and tugging to a rhythm only in his head. A free hand that slips lower, bounces his balls before squeezing, and Will is _sighing_ his anticipation to the emptiness of the shower.

Will fucks his fist hard and fast, wanting nothing more than to get off and be done with it. He wonders how many times Hannibal and Alana have stood under this very showerhead, her legs parted, Hannibal’s mouth on her. The image shifts and changes until it's him against the wall, leg hoisted on the shower’s edge while Hannibal licks paths up the underside of his cock. Then he is turned around and Hannibal’s tongue presses into him, fucking him until he’s wet and open.

Will wants to erase every trace that there was ever anyone here but him. His smell, his musk, and his presence against Hannibal’s sheets, rugs, couches, and kitchen counters.

Possessive is clearly an understatement.

He reaches for another image, one in which Hannibal bows to his will. And, oh, that hits all the right buttons.

Will comes at the thought of Hannibal _beneath_ him, ruined and begging for Will to fuck him, offering Will his heart’s desires for the gift of having his cock buried inside his ass.

It takes him a moment to recover, another to rinse away the evidence and organize all the bottles he’s knocked over.

Resting innocuous on the bed is a change of clothes Will has never seen before which are, suspiciously, a perfect fit. The charcoal gray pants hang properly against his hips, lower than he’d purposefully wear them. The dark button down is slimmer around the waist.

Gifts, Will realizes, and his dick valiantly tries for another round. Not yet.

By the time he returns to the foyer, Jack is walking in the front door with a look of bewildered good humor. It quickly turns into one of dumbfoundedness once he spots Will on the stairs.

Hannibal, who has removed his vest and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves to paint a picture of ease, excuses his poor time management skills. _I got caught up_ , he says, and Will sees the moment it all turns to outrage when Jack jumps to the wrong conclusion.

The impeccable Hannibal, dressed down and smiling toothily, cheeks uncharacteristically flushed. And Will, hair damp from a recent shower, barefoot and looking unmistakably like he’d been on the receiving end of a mindblowing orgasm just moments ago.

Jack schools his features into an expression of mild displeasure and follows Hannibal into the dining room, where he’s asked to wait while his host makes himself presentable.

“I hope the amenities were up to your standards,” Hannibal murmurs to Will, once they’re out of Jack’s earshot. His smile is smug, and satisfied, and the look says he knows exactly what Will was up to. He wasn’t exactly quiet while in the shower and Hannibal _had_ been in the room at one point. “Mind keeping Uncle Jack company until I am ready?”

Will nods, returning his smile with a languid one of his own. He walks past Hannibal but stops briefly to put a hand on the man’s belly and drag it down, taking in the rich fabric of the shirt and letting a thumb circle the button where his shirt disappears into his pants. “If you insist on dressing me up, I might have to dress you down.”

Hannibal’s stare flicks down to his mouth before glancing down at the hand touching him so intimately, arousal sparking behind his eyes. “I was hoping you would.”

Will's smile widens and he looks away, coyly. Giving Hannibal's stomach an affectionate pat, he continues walking to where Jack is waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

Will rolls out of bed the following morning later than he’d intended, woken by the smell of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee. The guest room is still dark but that’s mostly due to the thick curtains keeping the daylight at bay. Opening them, he decides he’s had enough gloom for one lifetime.

A cursory glance around the room reassures him no funny business has occurred since he went to sleep the previous night. No needle marks and no drug-induced grogginess, which means Hannibal remained a proper host, even though Will was dead to the world. He blames his impromptu session in the shower for exhausting him so thoroughly.

He pads downstairs with bare feet, still decked out in the clothing Hannibal had given him before dinner yesterday. The image of Jack’s perplexed expression is still fresh in his mind. At least the man had been sharp not to ask any awkward questions while their plates were being presented with Hannibal’s customary pomp and flare. Hannibal had been uncharacteristically chipper, smiling at Will over his glass and twisting the knife deeper into Jack’s back.

Will begins to say "Smells amazing," as he steps into the kitchen, but is stopped dead in his tracks, assaulted by tiny flashes of orange.

There are four small pumpkins, neatly carved with traditional jack-o’-lantern faces, sitting on the island’s freshly polished surface, a safe distance from the prep station. A glimpse through one of their mouths reveals unlit tea lights.

“Good morning, Will.” Hannibal is serving whatever’s in the pan onto a square plate, the scent of sweet spices growing stronger with his proximity. “I trust you slept well.”

“The bed was very comfortable.” He pokes at the pumpkin to make sure it isn’t plastic. It’s not. “Thank you for letting me stay the night.”

“Always a pleasure.” A serving of French toast and scrambled eggs is delivered to the counter, where Hannibal gestures for him to sit. “It would have been irresponsible of me to allow you to drive after being so generous with the wine.”

Will had been stone cold sober. “I thought you said you had errands to run this morning,” he says, looking down at his breakfast with appreciation. No meat. “Party tonight and all that, I thought you’d be busier.”

At Hannibal’s unimpressed look, Will blinks, then looks at the clock on the wall.

French toast and scrambled eggs for _lunch_ , then.

“I've been awake for quite some time,” Hannibal says, turning back to the stove and tending to an assortment of pots and pans that sizzle and pop with an array of enticing aromas. “Everything has been seen to with plenty of time to spare.”

Cutting off a messy square of his toast, Will dabs it in the tiny hint of syrup that decorates the porcelain edges of his plate. Then, nodding his head towards the jack-o'-lanterns, asks, “Did you carve those yourself?”

“I did not mean to insinuate that I have all the time in the world.”

Will smiles around his mouthful, Hannibal casting him a coquettish wink. “They’re really nicely done.”

“I might have stumbled upon a shop dedicated to last minute holiday arrangements.”

“Might have?” The bread practically melts in his mouth, and the eggs manage to be both creamy and fluffy. Another excellent meal in the Lecter household, though one suspiciously devoid of sausages. He wonders if it's Hannibal’s way of declaring a truce, or if he’s just trying to keep Will happy. “What else did you get?”

“A surprise.”

As much as he’d enjoyed the pumpkin flavored coffee, Will is grateful for the simple blend in his mug. Strong enough to wake the dead, smooth enough to ease any remaining tension laying dormant in the back of his neck. “I don’t normally like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one,” Hannibal announces, with the utmost certainty.

Will raises his eyebrows but doesn’t press the matter. “In that case, I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

Hannibal does not react to this pronouncement, but continues to move, unconcerned, around the kitchen.

Will watches him dance across his own stage, the elegant curves of his back swaying to the kitchen’s music while Hannibal performs his design. It’s a beautiful sight, regardless of what is being concocted. Credit where credit is due, and Hannibal truly is as talented with fork and knife as he is with matters of the mind.

Surgeon, psychiatrist, chef, serial killer, cannibal.

Nobody’s perfect.

His lunch finished, Will washes his dishes as quickly as possible, not wanting to hinder Hannibal's culinary ballet. However, just as he is placing the last dish on the rack, he is stopped by a hip, pressing against his own, and a hand settling on the curve of his waist, a pair of warm lips to his temple and a pleased puff of air against his skin. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“You’re being awfully accommodating,” Will comments, leaning heavily into Hannibal’s side, basking in the warm, solid feeling of him.

“To do otherwise make me a terrible host.”

Will maneuvers easily out of Hannibal’s arms, the man looking satisfied with their brief embrace. “Aren’t you curious about my surprise?”

“You won't reveal it until you want to,” Hannibal counters. “Prying won’t get me anywhere.”

“Begging might.” Will dries his hands on a small towel draped over one of the decorative pumpkins. His quip isn’t met with a reply. “Be right back.”

He exits the kitchen and goes out the front door, jogging lightly to warm his muscles against the day’s chill. There are leaves littering the driveway and sidewalks, causing him to wonder if Hannibal has a rake or something of the sort in the shed.

Popping open the trunk, Will takes out the last of his purchases and hesitates. It’s stupid and childish, but there's a nagging insistence that he has to at least try and ask. And if asking fails, he can always use alternate methods of persuasion.

The cold makes up his mind for him. Holding the bag, Will locks the car and rushes back inside.

“I may have been more than a little drunk when I bought this,” he points out, putting the bag down on the island. The department store’s name stands out in vibrant red letters on the plastic bag, almost offensive inside of Hannibal’s stately home. The look on his face echoes the sentiment. “Come here.”

Hannibal raises a sardonic eyebrow, but, after tending to the food and making sure nothing will burn if he turns away for two minutes, he moves to stand by the island.

Will opens the bag and looks down into it, telling himself this is his last chance to dump it in the garbage. He sighs, trying to remember how he let Beverly talk him into spending fifteen bucks on something so ridiculous.

“Close your eyes.” At Hannibal’s curious look, he shrugs. “Pretty please?”

The sharpness of his expression dwindles, Hannibal’s features going from confusion, to mistrust, to resignation. It’s a fascinating spectacle, visibly only by his proximity and Will’s uncanny ability to read the tiny shifts on his face.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and waits.

He’s standing perfectly still, coiled and ready to spring at the first indication that Will's intent is not entirely benign. The thought has traction. He could take the knife on the countertop and slide it gently across Hannibal’s throat. Watch him bleed out on the kitchen floor. Or he could push it into his gut, skin and meat giving way to Will’s strength, spilling over his knuckles.

No. That would be too easy. And things with Hannibal are never easy. So, Will does the next best thing: he disarms him.

Closing the distance between them until they stand toe to toe, Will tips his own chin upward and pushes his mouth against Hannibal's. It barely counts as a kiss. There's no fireworks or gut-wrenching lust, just the familiar sensation of skin touching skin. A small gesture that raises the fine hairs along Will’s arms. Hannibal _sways_ , and Will knows he’s fucked.

He pulls back and Hannibal follows, pressing their lips together in a kiss Will could categorize as clumsy. Hands find his flanks and grip onto the shirt, pulling him closer and Will almost laughs at the thought that Hannibal might be the clingy type.

By the third kiss Hannibal is far enough gone for Will to do what he needs. As discreetly as possible, he slips a hand into the bag and pulls out its contents. He gently shakes it open and circles his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders as if to pull him closer, but when Hannibal tries to bring their bodies flush together, Will leans back and out of his arms.

Hannibal frowns but doesn’t open his eyes, waiting for Will’s instructions.

“Go ahead and open them.” Damn his voice for shaking.

Hannibal does, momentarily distracted by the sight of Will only inches in front of him. He looks ready to pin Will to the nearest surface and take him, but he reins himself in and straightens up.

Will bites back a grin. As expected, Hannibal looks absolutely fucking ridiculous for once.

“A cape,” Hannibal's voice is almost monotone, and he picks at the cheap material like it burns him.

The effect is enhanced by the white apron tied around his waist and his rolled up sleeves. Hannibal looks like a highschool teacher about to chaperone his first hayride, equipped with a bad costume and a complete lack of enthusiasm.

“Not just _any_ cape,” Will volunteers, showing off the original packaging. “Modeled after Bela Lugosi’s _Dracula_.” He clears his throat to mask the chuckle he can't repress. “Completely unoriginal, I know.”

“I doubt it’s the most unoriginal one we’ll see today,” Hannibal quips. The corner of his mouth twitches with a potential smile, but it gives way into a sigh, then a bruising kiss.

Will has no time to react, forearms pinned as he’s walked backwards by the solid muscle pressed against him. His lips are assaulted, the bottom one sucked so thoroughly Will’s stomach contracts with hunger of the different kind. It’s as delicious as it is frightening, Hannibal’s ferocity trained solely on him.

Then the back of his knees bump into something and he falls backwards, onto the leather chair in the corner of the kitchen. Even sitting down Hannibal goes with him, hands cupping his face as he drinks the life from Will’s mouth, taking nourishment from the touch, dragging his tongue against the seam of Will’s lips.

When he eventually pulls away Will wants to go to him, suck on his tongue and eat him whole.

“Stay,” Hannibal purrs, eliciting a shiver. “This calls for some reciprocity.”

Will sinks bank into the chair, watching Hannibal’s back disappear into the foyer, cape dramatically billowing in his wake. He lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling, his cheeks burning. He's more than slightly aroused by how wonderful it feels to be on the receiving end of this kind of attention. Especially from Hannibal.

His mouth is soft and warm, adoringly single-minded in its mission to pull Will apart and leave him begging for more. Hannibal is sinisterly addictive, and Will can easily see himself laid out and spread under the man’s naked body.

Several minutes tick by before Hannibal joins him, a garment bag draped over his forearm and a small box balanced on top of that. “I debated whether or not this was too forward of me,” he confides, setting the items down on the small table beside the chair. “But it seems my worry was for naught.” He gestures for Will to open the zipper before turning back to his preparations, leaving Will to his surprise.

A mass of brown fur greets Will, stretching along the bag until he pries it open for a better look. Underneath it is a leather jacket of the same color, with big brown buttons fashionably tucked into seamless eyes. It takes him a moment to realize what it is he’s looking at.

He pulls the jacket free and holds it up in front of him. The fur is actually a cowl that is attached to the jacket. Not exactly tacky, but it isn’t what Will would consider casual wear. Another peek into the bag reveals matching leather pants. “What is this supposed to be?”

“Check the box,” Hannibal replies, moving to join Will once he’s satisfied with the condition of tonight's fare. “That was what inspired the outfit.”

He opens the box, but finds himself even more puzzled by the contents until he takes them. Realization dawns on him as he turns them over in his hands, and rather than reacting with horror, he barks out an incredulous laugh. “You said no costumes!”

“That did not stop you from bringing me a cape.”

“That is completely different," he exclaims, lifting the offending items with a grin. "This is more than just a joke. And I'm not even going to pretend I don't know why it made you think of me.”

Smiling, Hannibal steps closer and takes a furry clip-on ear from Will’s hand. “It matches your hair,” he says simply, pinning it to Will’s head. “It seems this vampire’s caught himself a werewolf for Halloween.”

“This is ridiculous,” Will chuckles gently as Hannibal clips the second one in place and fluffs his hair to blend them in. “ _We’re_ ridiculous.”

“A little humor has never killed anybody.”

“There's a first time for everything. Do you have a tux to go with your cape?”

Hannibal expression clears and he appraises Will with a look. “You insist on it being that kind of party?”

Putting the jacket back in the bag, careful not to squash the cowl, Will nods. “I’m curious to see how far you’re willing to bend.”

“You intend it to serve as a humiliation.”

“No,” Will says, turning back to Hannibal and leaning against the counter, watching him adjust the flames over the stove. “Not sure what the intention was, actually. I wasn’t exactly thinking when I picked it up. I was frustrated.” He lets the sentence fall away unfinished, unwilling to broach that subject in its entirety. “Years,” he says instead, navigating the dark, familiar waters. “It only took one evening to make you human in my eyes.”

“Was I never human before?”

Without missing a beat, Will shakes his head. “You were Dr. Lecter. Then, The Chesapeake Ripper.”

“And what am I to you now? Aside from human.”

“Complicated.”

“Like you are complicated.”

“We are just alike,” Will agrees, tracing a thumb over the smooth exterior of the jack-o’-lantern.

“Two people obsessed with one another.”

“I'm not sure I view it so equally.”

“Are you certain?” Hannibal uncaps a boiling pot before turning his gaze to Will. “Do you think of me, Will, when it is not required of you to do so? When grading papers and leafing through reports, gazing at and reconstructing crime scenes, raking the leaves in your yard. Do I linger in the back of your mind?”

Will meets his eyes, holding them as one would hold a lifeline. “Always,” he whispers. “I hear you. I smell you. You’re _always_ there, two steps behind me, nudging me whichever way you want.”

“Whichever way you need to take,” Hannibal corrects, tone a gentle lilt.

“It scares me.” As he'd once told Jack, getting close to Hannibal requires transparency. Naked honesty, pure sincerity. Will had known that he’d have to crack himself wide open and expose all the darkest, most secret places within him if he wanted to trap Hannibal. What he didn't know was that, once open, it would be impossible to close himself off again. “What you’re capable of. The sheer magnitude of your love for me. I'm afraid it will consume me.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Will smiles, but it’s more of an empty twist of the mouth than anything mirthful. The anger is back, twisting his guts. “You make me feel _alive_.” More than alive. Hannibal makes him feel like something worthy of worship.

Hannibal wets his lips, eyes gleaming almost black under the kitchen lights. “Then we are, indeed, very much alike.”

***

As evening draws nearer, Will is charged with decorating the dining room. He’s mindful of Hannibal’s aesthetic, setting aside petty mischief in gratitude for the meat-free meal. Besides, Hannibal’s decor is weird enough as is.

Will is surprised when Hannibal switches his white candles for red ones, informing him that it would better suit the theme Will has inadvertently created.

At the center of the table, skulls cry blood in a bed of dark colored petals. A thicket of antlers surrounds them like a cage, promising harm to whoever dare reach out for it. 

The modern dinnerware is exchanged for antiques, which are, no doubt, legitimate. “Is it polite to set the table with silver when your co-host is a werewolf?”

Hannibal silences him with a chaste kiss. “There’s a resin set in the basement, but then you might attempt staking my heart.”

Much of the afternoon is spent participating in light banter. Hannibal owns his kitchen, occasionally supplying Will with tips, should he ever desire to be more adventurous in his cooking.

“How steady is your hand?” Hannibal asks at one point, placing a tray of small cakes on the cooling rack.

Will looks up from where he’s drying dishes. “Depends on what you want me to do with them?”

The tray is placed on the counter, along with a silver mixing bowl Hannibal retrieves from the refrigerator. Without saying another word, he takes a rubber spatula from the utensils basket and presents it to Will.

He looks from the spatula to the cakes, and wrinkles his nose. “I’ll ruin them.”

“It’s only to serve as an adhesive for the fondant,” Hannibal explains, taking Will’s elbow and guiding him to the station. “It is impossible to do incorrectly.”

“Let’s not bet on that.”

Will doesn’t ruin them. He manages to steadily and evenly spread out the icing, spinning the convenient base Hannibal places the cakes on. Once done, Hannibal layers fondant on them so easily it seems like magic. Finally, they are handed back to Will, who pipes tiny ghosts onto the smooth tops.

It’s silly and will stick out among the carefully prepared and presented courses, but Hannibal reassures him that he takes more pleasure in working with Will than in demonstrating absolute perfection to his guests.

“You haven’t shown me the guest list yet,” Will observes when the thought presents itself. “Who’s coming? Other than the usual suspects.”

Hannibal puts the finishing touches on the appetizers and wipes down the counter. “I assure you, you will meet no strangers at my table.”

Will serves them both a glass of wine, and Hannibal thanks him for it. “I know a lot of people I don’t like.”

“An irrelevant argument. We may not like but we can tolerate. You tolerate quite well, if I may use myself as an example. Occasionally I believe you find amusement, perhaps even contentment, in our time together.”

The wine glass stops dead in front of Will's mouth, then is set down with a little more force than strictly necessary. “Are you saying I don’t _like_ you?” It’s like swimming against the current with him.

“Would I be wrong to do so?”

Will is about to say _yes, very wrong_ , but cannot bring himself to. His inner turmoil hasn’t stopped, the warring desires clawing at Will to rethink his choice. He wants to say that he doesn’t like what Hannibal does, but that would be, in part, a lie. “That would takes us back to the whole ‘complicated’ discussion.”

“I don’t think we ever left.”

Will nods in acquiescence. “My dad used to say that you can love someone without liking them.” He strokes the rim of his glass, the recollection bringing a tightness to his chest. “That makes sense to me now.” The words carry an admission Will doesn’t bother correcting, letting Hannibal make of it what he will. He can't stop himself from adding, "Sometimes you make it hard to dislike you.”

The smile reaches Hannibal’s eyes, delight evident in the way they crinkle at the corners. Unfortunately, the moment is interrupted by the doorbell. Two hours before their guests are set to arrive.

“I’ll see who it is,” Will sighs, pushing off the counter and leaving his drink behind.

At the doorstep are three children and, for the briefest moment, Will is terribly confused.

“Trick-or-treat!”

“Oh. Uh… hi.” He looks down at each little face, and then back inside. True to his word, Hannibal had actually bought candy. Full-sized candy bars, even, and a black pewter cauldron to hold them.

Certain they won’t get that many trick-or-treaters, Will pops two bars into each bag and gives them all the biggest smile he can muster. He commends the little boy dressed as a princess and wishes their chaperone a good evening as the kids skip back towards the street.

Will shuts the door and laughs. “We got actual trick-or-treaters!” he calls out, loud enough for Hannibal to hear him in the kitchen. “And you bought actual candy. I thought you'd be allergic to cheap chocolate.”

Will stays in the den near the front door, looking out the window as dusk falls to night and small groups of people prance about Chandler Square. He notices that across the street, two houses down, an inflatable Dracula protects the lawn. Not so stiff-lipped after all.

Speaking of Dracula.

After attending to the third round of trick-or-treaters, Will heads back into the kitchen and finds it empty. It's been cleaned and all of tonight's fare seems ready to be presented, so Will heads upstairs towards the bedrooms.

He ducks into the the guest room first to check his phone. Three missed calls from Jack and a text message from Beverly. Since Jack hasn't called the house he assumes it isn’t urgent. They’ll see each other in about an hour or so, anyway. Beverly’s text is more concerning. She wrote that they should count on her presence, as well as two more, and that they would be, in her words, "bringing the party".

The second message, unfortunately, isn’t from Beverly after all.

 _We need to talk about this. Not angry, just worried. See you tonight._ Will’s stomach twists at the sight of Alana’s name at the top of the screen. She could only be referring to so many things. 

Anxiety makes an official appearance, along with shame. He had forgotten all about her.

He tosses the phone back on the bed without replying.

Try as he may to hide behind chivalry and worry, lies are lies. Standing here, the taste of Hannibal fresh on his lips, he has to accept that he wants the man for his own. Alana’s safety aside, first and foremost, Will wants Hannibal to be his.

But what is there to do, or say? Will has crossed a line he doesn’t care to redraw.

Stopping outside Hannibal’s door, Will knocks twice and is invited in.

The doorbell goes ignored.

Will opens the bedroom door and promptly freezes, any sense of propriety he’s ever had flying out the window as he stares at a very naked Hannibal.

In an odd sort of way, it’s as if Will had forgotten that Hannibal is a man. A strong man, with sinewy muscles, a broad back, and powerful legs. Then, Hannibal turns and Will’s brain decides that it must verify if the previous observation was, in fact, true. That he must stare at the flaccid penis hanging between his legs in a thatch of blond hair.

Will is about to mutter an apology when he remembers that Hannibal invited him into the room in the first place.

“Will? Are you alright?”

“No.” Yes, he is. “Yes.” Is he, really? “No, actually, I don’t think I am. I, uh, I got a message. From Alana.” He deserves an award for the strength it takes to keep his eyes on Hannibal’s chin. “She knows about us. At least, I think she does.”

Hannibal pats his face with a towel, his damp hair further evidence that he’s fresh out of the shower. “That bothers you.”

“Yes! It does. A lot, actually.”

“Just yesterday you seemed insistent that I terminate my relationship with her.” Hannibal unceremoniously drops the towel onto a small desk by the fireplace.

“My conscience decided to bite me on the ass.”

“Whatever shall we do about that pesky little thing, then?” Hannibal teases, expression oddly playful when he turns on Will.

“Listen to it,” Will isn't in the mood to play along. He’s surrendered enough and, now that he’s presented with a slight glimmer of clarity, he won't let it be swallowed by the darkness. “We have to talk about this. The three of us.”

“What shall we tell her, then?” Hannibal challenges, stalking closer. “That I have greatly enjoyed our affair, but that I fear it has run its course? That, while she is a magnificent and outstanding woman, my heart simply lies elsewhere? Indeed, it has been bewitched by one Will Graham, the very man she rejected on grounds of mental instability.”

“That would be rude,” Will says, standing his ground even when Hannibal towers over him. “The idea is to not hurt her.”

“You stuck in the knife the moment you turned away her help. This will only serve to twist it deeper, regardless of how it is approached.”

“Don’t pin this on me.”

“How can I not? Should I lie and say that I don’t hold you above all else? My stubborn, hot-headed, lovely boy. That it is not you who inspired me to shed all semblance of propriety, to do the unthinkable. Who weakened me, made me hunger, awoke in me this animal lust simply by existing so near to me.”

“ _Hannibal._ ”

“Tell me to stop, Will.” His eyes are ablaze, scorching the very blood in Will’s veins. “Say it and I will, return to her arms rather than yours.”

Will clenches his jaw, uncertain whether he's more furious with Hannibal's attempt to manipulate him or at the thought of whatever this is coming to an end before it could properly bloom. “Stop it.”

“How unfair would it be, to all of us,” Hannibal growls, pinning Will to the wall with his body, “when I grow erect to thoughts of your sweet mouth, your firm body. When I will have to roll on top and fuck her–”

Will slams their mouths together hard, teeth knocking against teeth, lips splitting from the force. He fists his hands in Hannibal’s damp hair, tugging harshly until his mouth opens on a gasp, and then Will is pushing in his tongue.

“Shut up, Hannibal,” he grits out when he is able to tear himself away. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll put it to better use.” In response, Hannibal shoves him against the wall, barring him across the chest with a forearm, drinking in the desperate groans as he lays claim to Will's mouth.

“Do you see now, Will?” Hannibal rasps, his rough voice sending blood pumping below his belt. “Do you see that it can only ever be you? ”

“I told you to shut up.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when he is abruptly turned around, the side of his face colliding gracelessly with the wall. Hannibal holds him from behind, pressing them flush at every possible point of contact. “Dearest Will. My beautiful boy. I could have you right now, just like this.”

The moan that escapes Will would embarrass him, if he weren’t already humping the wall. He hates to admit it, but Hannibal's right. He would happily lay back and spread his legs wide open, grip the sheets and beg, wantonly, for Hannibal to stuff him full of that fat cock of his.

“Should I milk you?” Hannibal whispers into his ear, breath hot and accent thick. “Orgasm through prostate stimulation is said to be more powerful than one caused by average penile stimulation.” He cants his hips forward, and Will can feel the hard cock pressing against his ass. “However, we are pressed for time. Perhaps I should suck you.”

Will moans again, the filth that rolls off of Hannibal’s tongue pushing buttons he didn’t even know he had. The idea of his dick inside Hannibal’s mouth, between his _teeth_ , makes his balls coil up.

“Don’t stop talking,” he groans through clenched teeth, arching back to get Hannibal to rub against him. “God, just, jerk me off. Just let me come, Hannibal, please.”

Steady hands undo Will’s fly and push his pants low enough to snag the elastic of his boxers under his sac. Hannibal tongues at the pulse behind his ear, nibbling on the shell of it as he stalls, making Will squirm for the contact he desperately needs.

“No qualms when it comes to your hunger.” Hannibal touches Will’s chest, the fabric of his shirt starting to chafe the sensitive skin beneath. “You would burn empires to get what you want, all the while clinging to the ghost of your morality.”

Will looks downward, following the path of Hannibal’s hands until one finally wraps around his cock and strokes, squeezing just hard enough to get him panting. “I’m not entirely gone,” Will moans out, barely comprehensible as Hannibal tugs him, tight and slow. “Don’t mistake my willingness for a lack of-oh, fuck, yes!”

Hannibal laughs into his ear as he picks up the pace, stroking Will until he’s wet enough that the sound becomes obscene. “I am anxious to have you on my tongue,” he murmurs, focusing his fist on the head of Will’s dick, slicking his fingers with pre-come. “To taste your essence and take it into my belly until I’m full of you, my love.”

“Oh my god, Hannibal. Tighter. A little tighter. Almost there, almost, fuck.” Hannibal acquiesces, but it isn’t the tightening of his fingers that finishes Will.

The sharp sting of teeth breaking skin sends him over the edge so fast he has no time to react. He comes with a shuddering sigh, his legs suddenly so weak he might have fallen if Hannibal was not holding him fast. His whole body is shaking, mouth wide open, struggling to bring air into his lungs.

Hannibal guides him over to the bed and gently sits him down on the edge, pressing a kiss to every inch of his face and nuzzling his hair. “Better?” He presses a single kiss to Will’s lips, swollen with how hard he’d bitten them. “Now that you’ve released all of that tension, you may be enjoyable company to our guests yet.”

Will can feel half his mouth twitch. “Not if I fall asleep in my dinner.”

“At least two of them would be thrilled with the prospect of catching you so unaware, your defences lowered.” When Hannibal straightens up, his erection bobs at eye level. Will is keen to return the favor but he’s stopped before he can even move his hand. “Not yet.”

“Plan on hosting the party with a semi?”

Hannibal’s smile is, for lack of a better word, beatific. “This way, you will be the focus of my attention.”

“It'll be obvious that we were just fooling around.”

“And make clear my intention after the guests have gone. Which is to bring you to my bed and have you properly.”

Will’s cheeks flush more than what he thought possible. “Most of the people we know already suspect that we’re killing together.” He frowns. “Imagine the fall out when they realize that we’re… _doing this_ , especially when you're still supposedly Alana's boyfriend.”

“The FBI will come knocking on my door and they will find nothing.”

“Not Jack. He knows, and he won’t stop until he finds something.”

“Then we’ll leave together,” Hannibal declares, with surprising nonchalance. He washes his hands in the en suite and reaches for the pair of clean underwear he’s set for tonight’s outfit. 

Breath returning to normal, Will watches him quietly, his limbs heavy and his mind no lighter. The thought has crossed his mind before, but hearing it voiced lends it significant weight. Gives it the potential to become a reality.

“Will.” He looks up at the sound of his name to find Hannibal’s back to him as the man slips on a pair of black pants. “Shower and dress. I’ll see to our guests until you’re ready to join us.”

Looking down at the mess on his lap Will nods his head but can't summon the energy to move just yet. He debates whether or not he’d be excused if he ‘accidentally’ fell asleep and never emerged, but he dismisses that thought as cowardly, and unworthy of the commitment Hannibal is showing him.

Besides, being alone with his thoughts after what just transpired has the potential to be disastrous. He doesn’t want to linger on the meaning behind Hannibal’s sudden withdrawal, his reluctance to even look at him when minutes ago he had seemed ready to climb inside Will’s very skin.

Will’s insecurity falters when he spots the cape hanging in the closet alongside Hannibal’s dinner jacket.

***

The most leather Will has ever worn was a pair of gloves he’d gotten for Christmas some years ago.

He’s been aware of the stereotype regarding men in leather since he can remember. His college roommate had tried like hell to convince Will to wear some greasy leather vest of questionable origins, with nothing underneath.

The clothing on the bed holds a similar connotation, albeit on a far more expensive note. This isn’t some frat party, but the intention is the same. Hannibal wants to show him off, hang Will on his arm and present him as his own.

Unwilling to completely surrender himself to Hannibal's whims, Will forgoes the tight leather pants and wears his own from the day before, which have been miraculously cleaned at some point in the interim. They match the rest of the outfit just fine, and Hannibal has no reason to complain, anyway. He slips on the brown shirt and, lastly, the jacket, threading the buttons through their respective eyes. It hugs his waist more than he's accustomed to, a cut that’s almost too feminine for his build.

After putting on his own worn shoes, Will throws the fur over his shoulders and pulls it into place. Regarding himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, Will snorts. He can only tell where his hair ends and the cowl begins thanks to the contrast in textures. The color is identical.

He glances at the box on top of the dresser, then pauses to listen to the hubbub on the ground floor, and dreads the moment he must descend the stairs. The first guests arrived roughly a half hour ago, and even seeing Hannibal dressed up like a vampire isn’t enough to quell his anxiety about the potential for ridicule.

The urge to leave without attaching the ears is strong, but he figures that something ridiculous just might ease the tension that’s waiting for him the moment he steps in the room. Jack and Alana must think he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

Will affixes the ears and glares at the mirror like they’ve personally offended him - which they have, deeply and truly - and then hides his human ears under the longer curls of his natural hair. “I am Special Agent Will Graham. A professor with a PhD in forensic sciences and consultant for the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico. And I am dressed like a werewolf, about to join a Halloween party hosted by the Chesapeake Ripper, a known cannibal who gave me a handjob roughly an hour ago. My life’s a really bad fucking joke.”

Figuring he can’t put it off much longer, Will locks the bedroom door behind him and heads downstairs. He lingers before reaching the landing, listening to the conversation and trying to put names to the voices.

“I could make a joke about your outfit but I doubt Dr. Lecter would appreciate its lewdness.” Zeller steps out of Will’s blindspot with Price in tow, both of them staring like he’s grown another head. “Though the urge to make it is getting stronger by the second.”

Beverly stands by the door, a chocolate bar in hand, apparently drafted into trick-or-treating duty. Her mouth gapes open for a moment when she first spots his ensemble, before twisting into a very smug, if disbelieving, grin. “I cannot fucking believe what I’m seeing.”

“This is entirely your fault,” Will retorts, descending the last few steps. What he sees gives him pause, mind struggling to comprehend what's in front of him. “What are you guys wearing?”

“Our costumes,” she explains, patting Price and Zeller’s shoulders. “Kind of last minute, yeah, but I can’t work miracles with only a hour's notice.”

“Picture a regular, handsome guy, minding his own business when suddenly he gets an email.” Zeller elaborates. “A mass email stating, rather pretentiously, that tonight’s festivities have been modified to fit its host’s holiday spirit.”

“That’s not what it said, Zee.”

“Well, that’s what he meant.”

Price nods enthusiastically in agreement. “Stranger still was arriving at said host’s house and being greeted at the door by Count Lecter. There we were, thinking that our tacky costumes wouldn't compare to Baltimore’s social elite, and he pops up with a vampire cape from Walmart.”

“Walgreens,” Will corrects.

“And you come out looking like a BDSM puppy.”

“I’m a werewolf.”

“Fine. A BDSM werewolf.”

Price, Zeller, and Beverly are dressed more or less as usual, but their accessories turn them into a devil, a witch, and a cat, respectively. Yes, Zeller is indeed wearing a witch’s hat. “Please tell me you three have been behaving yourselves.”

“I was put in charge of the treats,” Beverly volunteers. “Mostly, we’re trying to fly under the radar as much as possible, you know, given my recent criminal history.”

“And we only came because she made us. Well, I guess she didn't have to force Jimmy, he was dying to rub elbows with every snob this side of Maryland while acting his usual weird self.”

“Haven’t been let down so far.”

Will frowns in the direction of the den. “How many people are in there?”

“Not that many, actually. Three peeps we’re all unfamiliar with,” Beverly hesitates, then says, almost apologetically, “as well as Jack and Dr. Bloom.”

Hannibal had said it would be a small affair, but he also implied that Will would know everybody there. “Is Jack wearing a costume?” He expected a collective laugh, not the exchange of unamused grumbles he receives in response. “He is?”

“Personally I think it is very creative,” Price interjects, holding up his hands in a placating gesture when both Beverly and Zeller turn to him with exasperated looks.

“He introduced himself as Agent J.” At Will’s lack of a reaction, Zeller elaborates. “Men in Black? He just swapped one of his usual ties for a solid black one. He was also wearing Ray-Bans. At night.”

“Still not as bad as wearing dog ears. Are those attached to a headband?” Beverly reaches to paw at Will’s scalp. He flinches and throws her a baleful glare. “Hey, we talked about this. You owe me big time, mister.”

“In other scandalous news,” Prince interjects as the doorbell rings, Beverly turning to it with a grin. “The party may end up being smaller than expected.”

“The unknown three? They’re bailing after the hors d’oeuvres. I overheard them say so to Dr. Bloom.” Zeller joins Beverly as he explains, sneaking a candy bar from the cauldron. It looks recently replenished.

Will is surprised to hear this, especially after all that's been made of Hannibal's legendary dinner parties and his obvious skill as a host. “Any reason why?”

“The decorations,” Beverly quips. “They aren't too happy that Baltimore's former-most-eligible-bachelor has succumbed to second rate party favors. You know how the rich and not famous are.”

Zeller mumbles thickly, through a mouthful of chocolate, “Lecter’s gonna be pissed.”

Will finds that doubtful, all things considered, but it does make him wonder just what exactly Hannibal’s up to. The man’s an excellent judge of character, capable of reading a person as easily as Will might leaf through the morning paper. He wouldn’t have invited people who might be displeased by a shift in his socialite veneer, not when he can clearly anticipated Will's actions, as evidenced by his choice of costume. Whoever these people are, they are here to serve a specific purpose.

Speak of the Devil, indeed. As if he's been summoned by a fucking pentagram, Hannibal himself chooses that particular moment to walk into the foyer. He looks laughably handsome in his tuxedo, even with the cape tied around his collar and his hair slicked back to fit the persona. No fake fangs. When he smiles, wide enough to show teeth, it is clear that his are all natural.

“Glad you could join us,” he beams at Will and extends a hand for him to take.

Will allows it and isn’t the least bit surprised when Hannibal bows to kiss the back of it with vampiric flair. The gesture should be ridiculous, but Hannibal makes it work.

Suddenly Will realizes that there are three pairs of eyes staring at them in varying degrees of shock. The good humor from before is sucked out of the room in an instant, this latest piece of their bizarre jigsaw clicking into place for his co-workers.

He’s over thirty minutes late, despite having been in Hannibal’s house the whole time, and he emerged from the second floor loose limbed and freshly bathed. 

When Hannibal kisses his hand, the array of expressions that cross Zeller and Price’s faces would be amusing, if it weren’t for the intimacy the gesture reveals. Beverly, on the other hand, doesn’t react at all, probably for Will’s benefit. But he can practically see the smugness radiating from her at this obvious proof that she had been right all along.

While Price looks pleasantly surprised, Zeller looks like someone has puked on his shoes. “At least the costume is accurate.”

The remark lands a solid blow to Will’s gut, and the sensation only worsens when Hannibal settles a look on Zeller that promises everything but a good time. Familiar as he is with the crude sense of humor of those closest to him at the BAU, the words still sting. “Jealous, Zee?” he says, figuring he might as well put the last nail in his coffin.

Hannibal turns his attention back to Will, mild surprise etched into the tiny lines around his eyes.

A pair of heels clicking over marble floors cuts off any retort, and they all turn towards Alana who appears to be toeing a thin line between faux composure and outright murder. She makes a beeline for Hannibal until she spots Will. She hesitates for a moment, then slows her stride and manufactures a warm smile. “Will! I didn’t hear you come in.”

No one bothers correcting her.

“Hey,” he offers weakly. The air practically crackles with tension, which is certainly not eased when she tries to pick up where she obviously left off.

She places a hand on Hannibal’s hip and leans in to whisper something in his ear with the familiarity of a lover. The act likely isn’t intended as a display of any sort, but it provokes a very ugly and violent urge in Will anyway.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Beverly and Price sporting twin looks of barely contained distaste. Surprisingly enough, however, they don't seem to be upset with him. Their outrage is apparently centered on _Hannibal_. Zeller, on the other hand, seems torn between smug satisfaction and growing disinterest.

Whatever she whispers to Hannibal has him nodding with a frown as he excuses himself and with his most magnanimous look in place, strides purposefully to join his other guests.

“Good to see you out and about,” Alana remarks, drawing Will’s attention back to herself. She points to his ears. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

“Is everything okay in there?” he asks, ignoring her attempt at making small talk and not caring if it comes off as rude. He has never been the epitome of social etiquette anyway.

Alana, clad in a pretty dress and a tastefully simple Harlequin mask, crosses her arms over her chest and gestures with her chin to the closed doors of the living room. “Mr. Ashford isn’t pleased with how this evening has turned out. I’ve never seen a grown man throw such a passive-aggressive tantrum before.”

The doors open with enough force to be considered a slam, echoing the subdued atmosphere of the house. A balding man, presumably Mr. Ashford, storms out and wrenches his coat from the rack by the front door. “And a pleasant evening to you all,” he throws over his shoulder, without glancing at anyone, and storms off.

The five of them are left standing there, torn between amusement and surprise at the sudden departure. Not more than a minute later, a stocky woman also leaves, albeit with more grace than her predecessor. She even spares them a stiff smile before walking out the door.

“One more to go,” Price mock whispers, earning him a dispassionate look from Alana.

However, he sports a smug expression when, not five minutes later, another man sheepishly says his goodbyes and slips out the door.

Will would grin if it wasn’t for for the twinge of guilt. He brought this upon Hannibal, ruining the man’s pristine reputation as Baltimore’s most gracious host. Will’s influence has cheapened him in the eyes of his colleagues. But, just like every other feeling he has about Hannibal, Will is torn, though this time it is between regret and satisfaction. Hannibal can afford to be knocked down a peg or two.

When Hannibal himself eventually steps out, Will almost loses whatever is left of his cool. He’s never seen this expression on Hannibal’s face, a cross between embarrassment and outrage, but Will knows it’s only for the benefit of his remaining guests.

“I apologize for the scene,” he says, patting his hands against his legs in an unsure gesture.

No one moves a muscle. The moment is tense, everyone unsure how to act without a cue from their host.

Will, however, is tired of all this polite bullshit and decides to break the silence. “More food for us.”

***

Dinner, to Will’s complete surprise, is actually kind of pleasant.

Underlying tensions aside, conversation at the dinner table is lively. There's even some laughter, at a bad joke or Jimmy’s “exciting” retelling of how he came to work for Jack. Zeller informs the group, in a long suffering manner, that it is mostly fabricated and only missing a couple of dancing elephants to make it a full fledged fairy tale. Jack denies everything. Beverly stuns everyone by announcing her engagement, and Hannibal congratulates her with a toast.

No one mentions those who left.

The courses pass without incident, at least until Hannibal proudly announces Will’s role in the preparation of tonight’s dinner. Will tries to ignore the looks that little revelation earns him, each judgemental for their own reason.

“I never knew Will was so adept in your area of expertise,” Alana remarks dryly, opening the floodgates.

Hannibal smiles at her, and then at Will, all tenderness and naked delight. “Will has a great deal of hidden talents. I am honored to witness more and more of them as time goes by.” Will's face flushes, warmed by the reverence obvious in his tone.

“And here we all thought he was just a one trick pony,” Zeller cracks, just a bit too bitterly to come off as a jest. “Not only can you catch murderers, but you can cook, too.” The _like them_ goes unsaid, but rests heavy in the air.

There’s no use in denying that, tonight, Will sits at Hannibal’s table like a fucking mistress, and everyone knows it.

Not only is his life a bad joke, it is right out of a soap opera.

“I also have an impressive vocal range, since you're so curious about my talents.” Will looks defiantly down the table at Zeller, daring him to push it further.

To Will’s surprise, it’s Jack who takes the bait. “Were you aware of this, Dr. Lecter?”

The tension in the dining room is thick enough to cut but Hannibal just smiles amicably at his dinner, obviously amused. “I’m yet to hear him for myself,” he muses, bringing a small bite of fish up to his mouth, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But I’ve no reason to doubt his word.” Before the collective sigh of relief Will knows is coming, he adds, “I'm certain I shall bear witness to it soon enough.”

There is no way to mistake the innuendo for what it is. Will briefly reconsiders his position on putting a bullet between Hannibal’s eyes, but, to be fair, he did ask for it. 

Beverly tries to muffle her laugh with her hand but she is too late and a bark escapes before she can stop it. She apologizes, but then Price too starts giggling - _giggling_ \- and the dam breaks.

It spreads across the table like a wave, Hannibal grinning into his glass and casting Will a sly look that’s meant to be reassuring. Will supposes it’s the kind of teasing acceptable between adults, God knows he’s gotten his fair share of it at the morgue at Quantico, but it feels out of place at Hannibal’s table. Mostly because Will thought him above this kind of crude humor.

“That was very inappropriate,” Alana tries to be stern but the corners of her mouth keep quirking up and ruining the effect

Jack has, for once, relinquished his solemn authority, and is chuckling heartily. “Come on, we’re all adults here.”

“Not all of us,” Will says, pointedly looking towards the end of the table where Beverly is practically doubled over between Price and Zeller.

“We are professionals,” Price says in mock indignation, and places a hand on his chest for effect. “Perfectly capable of having professional conversations.”

It only takes until dessert for Price's comment to be completely disproved. This time, it’s Alana and Jack who are reduced to peals of laughter at the sight of the scribbly ghosts Will had piped onto the cakes.

Everyone seems to have forgotten that they’re wearing the cheapest and most ridiculous costumes to boot.

***

As the night progresses, enough alcohol has been consumed to separate everyone into their own little niches. Less of a party and more of a casual get-together, it’s relatively tame, considering how rowdy most of the people at present are known to become. Hannibal’s presence seems to keep them in check.

Will sits at the harpsichord, nursing a drink as Jack, Alana, and Hannibal converse by the fireplace. He tries his hardest not to stare, not to let jealousy sour the sweet and easy peace of the evening whenever he sees the way she keeps looking at Hannibal.

He reaches out with his empathy and isn’t met with the type of resentment he had been expecting, similar to the one that simmers low in his belly as they speak. No, the way Alana stands so near Hannibal, like a wall, is a warning Will hadn’t been expecting.

Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, a switch flips. 

She knows. It’s in the way she and Jack stand, trying so hard to be casual, indulging Hannibal’s whims and his arguably bizarre humor.

Jack has violated the discretion they had agreed upon, rendering their deal obsolete. As of this moment, two key players have been swapped sides. Where Will stands by Hannibal, Alana sides with Jack. It’s a point against her odds of survival.

When the doorbell rings, Will is the first to get to his feet, holding up a hand to those who look his way. 

It’s almost eleven, but news of the house giving out full-sized candy bars has made its rounds. They’ve refilled the cauldron four times since the first round of trick-or-treaters, a lot of the older teens stopping by more than once in different costumes.

By now he's unclipped his ears and discarded the fur. The crisp night air hits him when he opens the front door.

“Trick-or-treat,” the kid chimes, and Will’s certain he’s heard the phrase enough to last him a lifetime.

“Consider yourself lucky.” He’s sure Beverly had made a sign and hung it up on the door, but a quick look shows nothing of the sort. “Last of the last,” Will says, dropping the Snickers bar into the plastic jack-o’-lantern.

Cold fingers wrap around his wrist when he’s about to turn away, and, when Will instinctively tenses, the hand tightens hard enough to make the bones protest.

“I’d like you to step outside, sir. It'd be best if you came quietly.”

Will’s life really is a bad fucking joke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter beta'd by the ever wonderful [thewonderofliving](http://thewonderofliving.tumblr.com/)! Who I probably owe a goat to.

The kid is roughly the same height as him, gangly under the generic black robe. A white, long mask obscures his face and Will can tell he’s young just by the way he holds himself. Jittery. Not his first rodeo, but he’s far from comfortable holding people up for cash.

“Go home before you get in trouble.”

“I told you to step outside. Close the door behind you.” The kid pauses when Will doesn’t budge. “I’m armed.”

“So am I,” Will states matter-of-factly. He doesn’t need to intimidate to get himself out of the situation, certain he can talk the kid down. “You don’t want to find out who the quicker draw is.” Okay, so maybe that sounds a bit more intimidating than intended.

“No one has to draw shit if you just give me your wallet.” The porch light catches on a small blade under the robe, and it’s all Will needs to act.

He yanks the captured hand, throwing the kid off balance. The candy bag spills over the steps as Will uses the hold against him, swiftly taking the pocket knife from the kid and getting him in a headlock. 

It’s a basic disabling skill he learned at the police academy years ago. Holding the knife to the punk’s throat not included. Will applies just enough pressure to make the blade felt, but not to cut through fabric.

“Next time, if you want to be taken seriously, you draw first blood,” Will spits. The kid thrashes but Will holds fast, shushing him with an edge that promises retaliation. The scuffle isn’t enough to incite any real adrenaline, and Will is ready to let the kid go when the soft click of an automatic lock draws his attention.

He feels rather than hears Hannibal’s approach, the rustle of clothing and the click of his shoes lost to the night’s ambient noises. But when he speaks, the softened lilt of his voice cuts and leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“Mr. Rogers.” Hannibal pauses, and the way the kid stiffens against Will is indication that Hannibal has correctly identified him. “I cannot say I’m entirely glad to see you.” The kid doesn’t reply, but he does stop struggling.

“You know him?”

“I do,” he says, feigning concern while allowing Will to maintain control of the situation. “I thought you to be half the man your father is. Do know that I shall be giving him a call come morning.”

Will lets go once he’s sure the kid’s heeded their warning, keeping the knife safely out of reach. He watches the kid turn tail, nearly tripping on his robe and knocking over a foam tombstone by the time he reaches the gate.

Behind him, Hannibal picks up the fallen candy bars. “I wasn’t aware you were in the habit of mentoring fledglings,” he says, only half joking. “Drawing first blood?”

“Intimidate them and kids will often drop the whole petty crimes stage. He can’t be older than sixteen.” Will doesn’t even bring up the option of calling the cops. “Guessing him and Dad don’t see eye to eye?”

“His father’s company is well known for its landscaping services. He joins him on the odd weekend.”

It’s because of situations like this, Will realizes belatedly, that Chandler Square turns a cold shoulder on door to door festivities. With all the big money lining the streets, it would be irresponsible to invite strangers with masks to ring the doorbell. 

Then there’s Hannibal, so sure of his status as a predator he keeps his lair’s security lax, certain he can protect his territory on his own. Self-congratulation is a blind spot to Hannibal, one Will can take advantage of if ever the need arose.

Closing the pocket knife, Will turns to go back inside but finds the door closed when he turns the doorknob. “Tell me you didn’t lock us out.”

“I’m afraid I have. The key was misplaced last week.”

Will stares at him, disbelieving. “Hannibal.” The indulgent smile on his face makes Will breathe deep, too on edge to appreciate whatever shenanigans his unusually playful friend has in store. “It’s freezing and you’re dressed like a vampire. Open the door.”

“The electrician showed himself in and never returned it,” he says, coming up to stand by Will. He opens the cape, draping it over his shoulder.

Will turns an exasperated, and mostly theatrical, sigh towards the cloudy sky above. Stars barely twinkle so close to the city, but it’s lovely to look at, nonetheless. “Did you get a new electrician?”

“I hope you enjoyed this evening’s dinner.”

“I’m gonna go ahead and pretend you didn’t say that.” Will, however, has no qualms about the meat. He’s way past the point of no return to give it more than a passing thought.

They huddle close under the porch light, but keep a respectful distance between them still. There are people inside, and despite the late hour, small clumps of older teenagers stalk the street, piss drunk and laughing loudly.

The cold breeze bites at Will’s cheeks, the thin material of his leather jacket doing nothing once the excitement of the brief encounter wears off. It’s when he shivers that Hannibal puts his arms around his middle back, pulling them closer together in hopes of sharing body heat. Giving up, Will rests the side of his face against Hannibal’s shoulder, nose pressed to the steady pulse at his neck.

“We could knock.” As nice as cuddling with Hannibal feels, his fingers are beginning to go numb. “Someone’s bound to notice that we both vanished.”

“We could,” Hannibal says, but makes no move to pull away.

“We could also do this inside. In front of the fireplace. With some coffee.”

Hannibal presses a kiss to his forehead. “Once everyone has gone?”

“Unless you’re into people watching.” Which isn’t that far out of the realm of possibilities given Hannibal’s tendency to perform. The again, the man is possessive enough to not be inclined to share. He can boast Will’s partnership to his heart’s content, but any moment of vulnerability or genuine affection would be strictly for Hannibal to witness.

For someone as low maintenance as Will, as dependent as he is on seclusion to hang on to those last bits of sanity, this is a deal breaker. _As if murder and cannibalism aren’t._ But there are just some things Will is unwilling to compromise on. They will eventually have to sit and talk about it.

Will tenses when the front door opens, but neither one moves until Beverly speaks into the night. “At the risk of sounding like an adult, you two are supposed to be our hosts. Not teenagers sneaking out to canoodle on the porch.”

Beneath him, Will feels Hannibal shift until his chin is resting atop his head. Good thing his face is already hidden from view, because he doubts he’ll be able to face Beverly after this. “Would that make you the overprotective sister, Ms. Katz?”

“Damn straight, since I’m not old enough to be his overprotective mother.” No venom, but a warning. “Get in here before you turn into popsicles.”

Will meets her eyes, however briefly, when he and Hannibal part. He can recognize the storm brewing in them, having seen it first hand during his incarceration, but there is also a hint of understanding. This is Beverly recognizing that, in the end, Will is in charge of making his own damn decisions. Even if said decisions are a health hazard.

***

Most of the guests leave at half past midnight.

Will reluctantly hands Beverly his keys when she asks about the dogs and grills him for it, saying that she doesn’t mind driving one whole hour to Wolf Trap and back again if it means that Will’s finally going to get some tonight.

Price tells him to wrap it, and Zeller reminds them that Hannibal is a doctor who knows the ropes.

The entire exchange happens safely out of Hannibal’s earshot.

Jack is the next to go, shaking hands and thanking his host profusely for the wonderful dinner. He briefly hovers over Will, shoulders squared in an attempt to remind him of where his allegiance lies, and all Will does is nod. Let Jack make of that what he will.

As for Alana, she opts to linger. She’s swapped her heels for a pair of flats, discarded her mask, and let down her hair. All smiles and rosy cheeks thanks to the beer she’s been nursing all night.

Hannibal doesn’t seem troubled, thanking her when she offers to help him clear the dining room and put things back in order. Will helps, too, but mostly he hangs back and lets them do most of the conversing as the night trickles on.

Dishes are washed, dried, and put away. Glasses are polished and counters wiped down. Leftovers are stored. Hannibal makes them coffee and they drink it in the kitchen, the three of them scattered about and wrapped up in their own mess of thoughts.

It occurs to Will that Alana is waiting for him to go home. That this is the norm for them. Once the party’s done and the guests are out, Alana spends the night and a lazy morning in Hannibal’s home.

The image of her in Hannibal’s bathrobe is enough to get him setting down his mug, and, casually, hoist himself up to sit on the counter. He picks up his coffee again, and slouches.

Alana isn’t the only one who can let her hair down, and Will isn’t going anywhere.

The already quiet kitchen goes still, the three of them waiting for the inevitable conversation. Will is aware of how childish he’s being, of how immature this entire situation is, but these past few days have been everything but normal.

“Alright,” Alana says, finally. “What did I miss?”

Hannibal gives her a thoughtful look before turning it towards Will. “Quite a lot, it would seem.”

“I’m off for a week and I come back to… whatever this is.” She vaguely gestures at Will on the counter, her mouth is tilted up in a dry smile. “Not a week after I moved out of my parents’ place they adopted a stray cat and let it have my room.”

Will nods in understanding. “Guess I’m not the only one in the habit of collecting strays.”

“Are you getting my room?” The question is bold, and Will commends her stony courage.

“Just your milk,” he says, not a single fuck left to give.

Alana blinks at him, and Will clearly sees the confusion on her face. “I see.” Then, to Hannibal, "Have you anything to add?”

“An apology, for not being wholly transparent with you.”

“Transparency isn’t really an issue when Will can see you perfectly well, is it?” She crosses her arms over her chest, her paleness stark in the kitchen’s bright lights. “The least you could have done was let me know beforehand.”

It nags at Will that Alana doesn’t look as bothered as she should be. He’s seen her rail at Jack before, heard her raise her voice until an entire classroom falls dead silent. The calm confrontation sheds new light on Alana’s own motives, dropping Will into a pensive state.

In fact, if Will thinks back further still, he realizes that the extent of Hannibal’s control is truly mindboggling.

“Hannibal has been abundantly clear from the start,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose as his mind races to put the picture together. “We’ve been unsure where we stand with each other, and I suggested it’d be better to not to bring it up for the time being.”

Alana stares at him, trying to decide whether or not she and Will are still on the same page. If she’s still playing the distraction, or if Will has offered himself in her stead. Or, in a worst case scenario, if she’s standing before two killers who have finally found common ground.

Will wonders when Hannibal realized Alana was playing him just as hard as he was playing her. It’s all very impressive, but it only serves to cement that she’s now running on borrowed time.

“Right,” she says. “Make me look like a fool while you two make eyes.”

“Nobody thinks you a fool, Alana.” Hannibal takes a step forward but keeps a small distance from them. “Quite the contrary.”

“I think myself a fool, and that’s bad enough. I turn my back for a damn second and, what, he’s doing your groceries?”

“Will was only being helpful.”

“How far did your helping hand go?” she asks Will, and this time she does raise her voice. “Did you provide the meat, Will? Or are you saving that until after I’m gone?”

“I chopped vegetables and frosted the cakes,” he says, borrowing calm from the man leaning closer to him. After drinking the last of his coffee, Will sets the mug aside. “And I think you should call a cab.”

The look on her face is positively icy. “Excuse me?”

“Hannibal.” Will gives him a quick glance he hopes conveys his request. “The weather’s going to worsen.”

Only the crinkles around Hannibal’s eyes betray his smile. With an elegant tilt of his head, he walks out of the kitchen and into the foyer, granting them the illusion of privacy. He could have used the phone in the kitchen.

Alana is quick to close the space, nearly caging Will on the counter. “What has gotten into you?”

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Hannibal scents lies better than a shark scents blood,” he says, absently nudging his mug closer to the edge of the counter. “He _knows_ what we’re doing. All of our clocks are ticking down.”

“You’re not bulletproof!” The words snap like a whip, forcing Will to look up at her. “Or did you fool yourself into thinking that he’s capable of feeling? That you’re somehow exempt of his bloodlust?”

“Not ten minutes ago you thought him capable of feeling enough.”

“He’s a good liar.”

“And we’ve never told a lie in our lives.”

“Will, listen to yourself.”

“No, you to listen to me. Very carefully.” He sucks in a deep breath, trying to ease his hammering heartbeat. “You chose to be brave when you sided with Jack. Now, I need you to be blind.”

Alana doesn’t react as he expects, and instead sighs hard enough to make her shoulders fall. Will watches her jaw clench, the tiny shifts of emotions touching her beautiful face until she takes a step back, finally assimilating the threat that sits in front of her. “I’m not running.”

Will likes to think that in some other life, Alana is what he needs; grants him the strength to become a better man, his stability and inspiration to get up and face another day. But Hannibal is always there, as intrusive as the thought itself. Regardless of the reality, Hannibal lingers like a shadow just over Will’s shoulder. And every time, when the sun scorches the flesh off Will’s cheek, he will turn to the darkness that shelters him. Hannibal will always be there to welcome him with warmth and a loving touch.

This is the reality he’s been given, however. Will has reached out, relying on lies to achieve normalcy and balance, and continues to fail each time.

“Then you’re going to die,” he says. There’s no need to fake nonchalance.

“Not if I can help it,” Alana dares before the click of shoes heralds Hannibal’s entrance, putting an end to the conversation. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

Will remains on his spot on the counter until the taxi arrives and Alana shows herself out, declining Hannibal’s assistance with her coat. They’re gone long enough for brief words to be exchanged, and when Hannibal rejoins Will, he lingers between the kitchen and dining room, thoughtfully regarding him.

Outside, streetlights illuminate the first flurries of the season.

“Curious about how I got here, Dr. Lecter? Or are you still unsure of where my loyalties lie?”

“Forgive my hesitance, but I still can’t entirely predict you. Your inner turmoil works in your favor.”

“Wading in two waters, never sure which I’ll sink into today.” At Hannibal’s lack of a reply, Will shakes his head. “I’m drowning in both.”

“I appreciate your sincerity.”

“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”

“It assures me that not all hope is lost. Uncertainty invites the possibility to entertain alternative outcomes and the means to achieve them.”

“It also invites outside forces to persuade,” says Will. His words seem to echo in the empty house, the late hour granting the conversation a somber and dreamlike quality. “I feel obligated to tell you not to kill her.”

Each step Hannibal takes into the kitchen is calculated, and Will wonders why he hasn’t taken out the wine. “Obligation requires commitment.”

“Duty,” Will counters. “To moral bounds. My moral compass has been skewed for a while, thanks to you.”

“I merely suggest. Ultimately, it’s your choice. Just as it is your choice to ask me not to kill Alana.”

“And your choice whether or not to deny me my request.”

Hannibal nods once. “Yes.”

“Lucky I’m a variable, then. Uncertainty grants me grounds for persuasion.”

Will watches Hannibal wet his lips, tracing the movement with sharp focus. “Tell me, dear Will, which methods of persuasion will you partake in?”

“Come here.” Will holds out a hand and Hannibal moves until he’s close enough to be pinned between Will’s knees. “I’ll show you.”

Hands gently pressed to the side of Hannibal’s face, Will brings him in for a soft kiss. It’s a mere touch of lips, and they share a quiet gust of a laughter before pulling away.

“You intend to lure me with sex?”

“No,” Will states, taking Hannibal’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging before letting go of it. “I intend for us to have sex, but that isn’t in the active cards, yet.” Will hooks his heel behind Hannibal’s thigh and brings him closer, until they’re chest to chest. “It’s unwise to show my hand all in one go.”

The way Hannibal’s eyelids droop with want chases a thrill down Will’s spine. “I ought to have you right here for your brashness.”

Will shakes his head, impishly turning his head away whenever Hannibal reaches for his mouth. The playfulness is definitely something he could get used to. Will can’t remember the last time sex was more than a means to an end. “Bedroom.”

“Ours?”

The single word is enough to render him breathless. There’s still so much to talk and make sense of, compromises to be made, but Will feels delightedly trapped. The sense of _belonging_ rests heavy in his limbs and all he can do is nod.

***

Hannibal asks him to wait in the bedroom, and so he does.

The fireplace is lit when he walks in, the bed turned down and curtains closed. The setting is as cozy as the last few days have felt. Quiet, safe, and undoubtedly romantic. He’s surprised Hannibal hasn’t set out candles for the occasion.

Will hangs up his jacket and removes his shoes, further convincing himself that this going to happen. 

It’s silly for a man his age to be nervous about something so mundane as sex, but, granted, not everyone has the weight of a tiny and unstable world over their shoulders. Will tries to divorce one thing from the other. Tonight, he’s here because he wants to. Time to finally scratch that itch.

When Hannibal joins him, he does so with a porcelain plate that gets in instant laugh out of Will once he sees it. “I recall you placing a request,” Hannibal announces, closing the door behind him. “A traditional, Southern apple pie.”

“Seducing me with pastries.” Will takes the plate, but before it’s fully relinquished, he’s pulled in for a quick kiss that is alarmingly tender. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“That’s what I intend, yes.” Hannibal moves away to shed his outer layers of clothing, diligently placing them where they belong.

Will looks down at the piece of pie large enough to feed two people, thinking back to their conversation about sharing. This isn’t what he had in mind, but sitting at the foot of Hannibal’s bed, he finds the idea of feeding each other exciting.

Breaking off a small piece, Will brings it to his mouth. The sudden burst of flavor transports him back to his childhood, to the few good memories he has of sitting out in the bayou and indulging in some of the best food he had ever tasted. From the caramelized apples to the flaky crust, Will can only describe it as perfect.

“This is really good,” he says when Hannibal finally sits beside him, knees touching. “Simple, nicely balanced.”

“Sweet enough?” Hannibal takes the fork from him, picking up an already cut piece and holding it to Will’s lips.

Will’s answer consists of taking the offered piece into his mouth, the hand not holding the plate coming to rest over Hannibal’s thigh. In turn, Hannibal places his unoccupied hand on Will’s back, carefully stroking.

They take turns feeding each other without a spoken word, warmed by the fire and their proximity to the other. The occasional kiss is stolen between forkfuls, sugary and wet, until their meal is done and there’s nothing left but daring touches and feisty tongues.

Hannibal’s hand tightens where it still rests at the base of Will’s head, ready to push him down onto the bed, but Will has other ideas. “Floor,” he murmurs, and smiles coyly at the curious look he receives. “I’d rather not sleep on sweaty sheets once we’re done.”

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is willing to alter his plan for the sake of giving Will what he wants. He pulls a sheet free from the corners of the mattress and spreads it over the rug, safely out of the flames’ reach. The pillows are next, and Will too joins the fray, plopping down and unbuttoning his shirt. Hannibal interrupts by spreading his knees and settling between them, taking over the task.

Will laughs, leaning back until he’s propped up on his elbows, forcing Hannibal to adjust his position or else fall on top of him. When settled, Will fumbles with Hannibal’s pants, mindful of the expensive outfit.

Seeing Hannibal naked pales next to the experience of actually undressing him. Each slow drag of fabric, shedding layer after layer of armor, until he’s exposed and vulnerable under Will’s hands burns a slow arousal. 

The sensations are different from anything he’s ever tried, giving him brief pause when, rather than supple breasts, his hands are met with strong pectorals and a thatch of silvering hair. Instead of gentle curves and soft skin, Will is met with muscle and sharp angles.

Hannibal pins him down with nothing but his weight, cocks trapped between bellies and Will’s breaths grow short because they both want this, and he’s having no trouble getting it up for a man.

It’s almost enough, almost _satisfying_ to simply lay before the fire with nothing but skin between them. Hannibal’s kisses are tender despite their hunger, his tongue mapping the confines of Will’s mouth and savoring every inch of it. Will, feeling giddy when Hannibal slips a hand down his side to give his ass a squeeze, nibbles on his bottom lip.

Then, Hannibal _moves_ , and all Will can do is gasp at the friction. His hands scramble over Hannibal’s back, suddenly unsure of where to put them, but a hot puff of laughter into his ear eases the small bout of nervousness.

“Is everything alright?” Hannibal sighs against his jaw, delivering playful bites down the column of his neck.

“I’m good.” Will swallows around the knot in his throat. “Almost forgot what sex was like.” He aims for sarcasm but sorely misses. Hannibal pulls away to give him a thoughtful look, before reaching for a pillow and asking Will to move.

With a pillow under his head and another under his hips, Hannibal patiently adjusts him until he’s content. “Is that better?”

Will nods, nudging a toe against Hannibal’s thigh. “Comfortable enough that I’m considering calling it a night.” His grin says otherwise.

“A tragedy,” Hannibal says, touching a hand to each of Will’s knees and parting them, caressing a path down to his groin, “to abandon tonight’s plans, Will. You would have taken great pleasure in them.”

“You might still be able to talk me into it.” Will moves into the touch, arching his hips when Hannibal’s hands come close to touching his dick. “I think you mentioned blowing me, earlier.”

Hannibal leans down to suck kisses onto Will’s stomach, making muscles jump in their wake. Teeth graze the expanse of taut skin, biting the fleshier parts of him until finally moving onto the inside of his thighs.

Will grips the sheet in anticipation, Hannibal breathing hotly against him but not quite making contact yet. He teeters over the edge of do or don’t, but then the slow, hot drag of Hannibal’s broad tongue up the underside of his cock has his mouth falling open in a shamefully unguarded moan.

Will has no time to catch up with his thoughts when lips wrap tightly around him and _suck_. His heels dig into the sheet, leverage for him to thrust into that delectable mouth, but Hannibal pushes him back down onto the pillow. Instead, Will reaches for his hair, gripping it tight enough to forbid Hannibal to even entertain the idea of stopping.

He can’t remember when the last time he got head this good was, if ever. Hannibal takes on the task with the same grace and single-mindedness he does everything else. Mindful of his teeth, he suckles at the tip, fists the root in a slow tandem that leaves Will gasping for more, to please let him come.

But then his mouth slips off and Will is left whispering a small litany of _no no no_ , pulling Hannibal close again, desperately, to no avail.

Chaste kisses are spread down both his legs, fingers digging into coiled muscles until Will is melting onto the floor, too heavy to move. He smiles up at the ceiling, and at the mirror atop the fireplace he had only vaguely registered. Will wants to remark on Hannibal’s vanity when he finally realizes why it’s placed in a downward angle, but the sight of himself splayed and undressed, makes his face burn.

Will watches their reflection, Hannibal’s head bowed as he kisses the top of Will’s feet and makes his way up again, delivering worshipful touches as he goes. The way his back moves has Will biting his lower lip, surprised that such a view could turn him on so much.

Fist once more wrapped around Will’s cock, Hannibal tugs it up and out of the way, bending to lap at Will’s balls before those, too, are cupped and nudged aside. The question dies in his throat when a finger nudges up just beneath them.

Hannibal’s thumb massages along his perineum in slow but firm circles. Will works his hips and is rewarded with a tight stroke on his cock, but goes rigid when a sharp snap of pleasure chases up his spine and curls his toes. “Oh, _fuck._ Do that again.”

Will is startled when warm lubricant is drizzled onto him, Hannibal carefully working his stiff dick and stopping when it jerks with too much interest. He teases Will mercilessly, and it all feels too damn good for him to complain.

He does, however, tense up when a slick finger puts pressure against his hole. Will knew it was coming sooner or later, so he closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable.

“May I?” Hannibal’s voice against his ear makes him start, having failed to notice him crawl his way up again. He nuzzles the side of Will’s face, a finger still drawing insistent circles along the clenched muscle. “The initial intrusion will be strange, but it will begin to feel good the moment you relax.”

Will can hear his own heartbeat, and forces himself to ease back down against the sheet. He focuses on the heat of the fire along the left side of his body, Hannibal’s grounding weight on him, and the soft lips that brush feather-light kisses over his shoulder. “Only your fingers?”

“Only my fingers,” Hannibal promises. “For now.”

Combing the bangs out of Hannibal’s eyes, he nods. “If I like it, you can fuck me into the mattress the next time we go at it.”

“Or, you may fuck me, if you like.”

Will wets his suddenly dry lips. “You never said that was an option.”

“It never came up.” Hannibal stalls any forthcoming retort by steadily applying more pressure until he finally pushes inside.

There’s enough lubricant for the finger to slide in with only minimum resistance, but Will’s body instinctively tries to expel it. It does for a very strange sensation, one not entirely unwelcome when Hannibal kneels to keep his other hand working Will’s cock.

The slow burn eventually gives away, the more lubricant Hannibal pours onto his hand, pushing the finger deeper before withdrawing to the tip. The drag lights up nerve-endings Will had been unaware of but appreciates the discovery of, and by the time Hannibal introduces a second finger, he’s biting his fist keep himself quiet.

Either Hannibal is too good, or Will is more into this than he thought he would be.

Hannibal’s fingers stretch him at a leisurely pace, moving around and carefully fucking Will open. It feels good enough to makes him want more, fingers suddenly not enough.

The hand on his cock stops in order for Hannibal to lean over him again, licking into his mouth as his fingers continue to push and pull, knuckles deep. Will rambles around the tongues in his mouth, maddening heat pooling in his gut the louder the wet squelching from below gets.

But then, Hannibal curls his fingers, and Will’s head snaps back with a quivering moan.

“Look at me, Will,” Hannibal commands, voice hotter than any other physical touch.

Nails dig into Hannibal’s shoulder blades, Will trying and failing to keep his eyes open with each shock of pleasure that drags him higher. His vision burns white with arousal, cock twitching where it rests against his hip without needing to be touched.

He grunts with each thrust, begging for more, desperate for Hannibal to give him anything that would be enough, but completion eludes him. Each rub against his prostate makes him shudder, back arching off the sheet with a slurred _ohgodpleasefuckmeharder_ whispered again and again.

Hannibal holds him near the edge but doesn’t push him over, withholding that last bit Will needs. He, too, murmurs words against Will’s mouth, shushing him when he gets too loud, all the while coaxing every sound he can out of him.

“ _Will._ ” 

The word is sharp, but what gets him to react is the stilling of all movement. “No, no, don’t stop, please.”

“If you want to come, you will only do so with my fingers.” Will never knew humans could growl. “Do you understand?”

It takes him a moment to realize what Hannibal is talking about. “It’s not enough,” he pants out, trying to piece scattered thoughts into a coherent idea. “God, I just want to come.”

“Let go, Will, and I’ll allow it.”

Will hears himself whimper, and unable to put up a fight, lets go of his cock to grab the nearest pillow instead. Hannibal rewards him by resuming a cruelly slow pace, each stroke hitting the spot deep inside him.

A warm hand finds itself in Will’s hair, pushing back damp curls. “Have you ever touched yourself to thoughts of this?” Hannibal asks against his ear, his voice only slightly wavering. “Of us?” The hand in his hair tightens. “I have.”

The confession has Will’s body going tight, unbearable heat coiling heavy in his balls, pushing him closer. His feet find purchase and he pushes against Hannibal’s fingers, trying to take him deeper. All he needs is little more. “Oh, _God_ , fuck.” Will lets go of the pillow and goes back to clinging to Hannibal’s neck instead. “Fuck! Hannibal, I’m almost… _fuck, yes_.”

“Open your eyes, Will. See how beautiful you look like this.”

Will does, and the sight of him ruined, slicked in sweat and flushed, is the final push he needs. He clenches down on Hannibal’s fingers as he comes, spilling over his stomach with a moan that lodges itself at the back of his throat. Tiny convulsions keep him clawing at the hot skin under his hands, breaths turning into broken sobs until he collapses back onto the sheet.

Eyes closed and jaw slack, Will basks in the delightful aftershocks of what has to be the best fucking orgasm he’s ever had. He can feel Hannibal moving above him, bringing him back with feverish kisses and careful touches. “Fuck,” is about the only thing he can say between shaky laughs. 

Will catches Hannibal’s mouth, pouring the sheer ecstasy that courses through him onto his tongue. Reservations abandoned, he dabs his fingers along the cooling come on his stomach, and reaches for Hannibal’s hard cock.

“My turn,” Will sighs, and marvels at the way Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed when he takes him in hand.

The weight of another man’s cock against his palm is yet another strange feeling that isn’t unpleasant. It has a nice girth, the extra skin at the tip silky smooth when he pulls it up over the head, and watches attentively as it slips back down once he lets go. Now that he’s sated, Hannibal’s body is a curiosity Will wants to explore.

In an endearing gesture, Hannibal drops his forehead against Will’s, nose to nose, and Will can’t help the grin that tugs at his cheeks. He watches with rapt attention every shift and twitch of Hannibal’s face, the involuntary flare of his nostrils, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his lips curl back to bare teeth.

His hand briefly joins Will’s, showing him how tight he likes it and where to focus on. Hannibal tries talking him through it, but Will is having none of that. The man is far too coherent for someone who almost drove him to the point of passing out from pleasure.

Will drags his nails down Hannibal’s back hard enough to make him bow and tightens the hand around his cock enough to keep him from spilling too soon. And, hell, if it weren’t for the fact that Will’s already come twice during the past couple of hours, he’s sure the look Hannibal gives him for his troubles would have done him in.

With a handful of Hannibal’s ass, Will urges him higher up his body. “A tease for a tease.” He lets go of Hannibal’s cock to scoop up more of his come, salaciously bathing his bottom lip with attention. “It’s not that different from what I would normally mess around with,” the curious look on Hannibal’s face prompts him to explain. “Different pressure points, similar sensations.”

“I… may have underestimated you,” Hannibal purrs when Will presses a slick finger to his opening, pushing against it.

“I thought we already established that I have a tendency to exceed your expectations.”

“Will, please.”

“Please?” Will laughs, contentment airy in his chest. “I should only give you my fingers. Even Stevens.”

“You needn’t give me anything.” The last word breaks off into a grunt when Will pushes harder, nearly breaching the muscle. Hannibal’s hips stutter forward on instinct, and Will is suddenly taken with thoughts of _next time_ , when he can take more than just two fingers.

“Rub yourself off,” he says, looking between them at the stiff cock that bobs and drips precome onto his stomach. “Come on, Hannibal. Come on me.”

Hannibal nearly topples over when the sheet wraps around his feet and hinders him from moving, making Will laugh at the utter lack of grace and precision. Hannibal bites the tender flesh under Will’s chin in retribution.

Readjusted with a knees on either side of Will’s waist, Hannibal ruts, and Will really wishes he were twenty again. The way Hannibal moves, the dirty undulations of his hips as he fucks Will’s stomach makes Will want to get it up again.

“That’s good, that’s really good,” he sooths, grabbing onto Hannibal’s hips and urging him faster. “Fuck me nice and hard, Hannibal. Mark me.”

Will is pinned down, the entirety of Hannibal’s body resting over him as he’s humped like an animal in heat. He paws at whatever bit of skin he can reach, murmuring filthy nothings into Hannibal’s ear until finally he feels a gush of wet heat over his stomach.

They sigh in unison, Will shutting his eyes as Hannibal rides the last of his orgasm, face buried in the space between Will’s neck and shoulder.

The crackle and snap of the fire tries pulling Will under quickly after. He’s warmed to the bone, limbs loose and mind blissfully blank. The promise that the rest of his nights could be spent like this is too much of a temptation, better than any other sort of release Hannibal could orchestrate.

Thoughts of the future can wait. Right now, Will is perfectly content spending his night with Hannibal’s slick mouth plush against his, stuck together with sweat and come, their hands idly discovering eachother.

Hannibal is the first to pull away, but not without lavishing Will’s face with warm kisses. He tells him to wait right where he is, and when he returns, he does so with a small towel. 

Cleaning up is a quick exercise, albeit a sluggish one that keeps getting interrupted by Will’s newfound need to be touched and coddled. The soiled sheets go ignored in favor of moving to the bed.

The soft mattress is a glorious reprieve on Will’s back.

“Those guests who left,” he says, watching Hannibal dim the lamps and stoke the fire. “I’m willing to stake my reputation by saying they have a purpose.”

Taking a clean sheet from the dresser, Hannibal unfolds it and spreads it over the foot of the bed. “They do,” he confirms, climbing on and laying on his side, facing Will. “Never too early to get started on Christmas preparations.”

Will looks at him and finds he isn’t joking. “You’re certain we’ll still be here in two months,” he’s says, because it’s a longshot.

Hannibal reaches out, tracing his knuckles down Will’s bearded cheek. “I would very much like to be.”

“What if we can’t stay?” He can feel his heart pick up again, addressing them as _we_. “There’s practically a welcome mat at the front door and Jack’s already got the key.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle, showing nothing but contentment and ease. “Then I will show you Florence.” He inches closer, draping his arm over Will’s naked hip. “Would you really come away with me, Will?”

With no hurdles left to jump over, Will closes the last bit of distance between them. Head under Hannibal’s chin, arm over his flank and legs tangled in the sheet. He presses his nose to the nearest pulse point, and finds it perfectly calm. Hannibal’s skin is warm and inviting, alive under his touch.

Will nods, certain that Hannibal can feel it. “I’m curious as to how that’d go.”

“As I am curious as to what you intended to do with the boy’s pocket knife.”

Will hums, running a quick mental check in regards to where he left his pants. “I wouldn’t have left it in my pocket if it were meant for you.” And it isn’t like Hannibal doesn’t have a few scalpels of his own conveniently hidden in the bedroom.

Be it trust or foolishness, neither of them becomes defensive.

Hannibal pulls up the covers before resettling on the bed, keeping Will scooped up against his chest, a small hill of pillows at his back. That same feeling that first took root days ago comes back, the one that makes heat bloom along every inch of his body when Hannibal _takes care_ of him. Keeps him fed, warm, and comfortable. Safe, despite the circumstances of their union.

There is still an itch under Will’s skin, and it grows more noticeable the quieter the night becomes. When Hannibal’s breathing evens out in sleep, the world on the other side of the walls growing still, Will searches for what it is that stands unresolved.

He thinks to the scuffle on the porch, the light kick of adrenaline that will most likely fade from memory when worse offenses transpire. Will thinks about the weight of the knife still in his pants, how it wouldn’t have drawn that much attention if he had just applied a bit more force, enough to draw some blood. Scare the kid off for good.

Will has to remind himself that he doesn’t kill kids. He doesn’t kill anyone unless there is no other choice. He doesn’t kill, and he absolutely does not help the man sleeping next to him shop for groceries, prepare, and serve the remains of those who meet abrupt ends for their rudeness.

It’s quite the sticky situation, and downright twisted of him to even entertain the thought. But, luckily, in some convoluted and bizarre turn of events, he’s somewhat officially dating his unofficial therapist. Hannibal did promise to deliver the best of psychiatric care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least Will's life can't possibly get any worse, right?
> 
> Happy Halloween, you dragon slayers!

**Author's Note:**

> [celestialparadigm@tumblr](http://celestialparadigm.tumblr.com/)


End file.
